


Sign with Poison in My Heart

by TheWyldeWynd



Series: SWAC - Sealed With A Curse [2]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Imma do it anyway, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inevitable but Extremely Far Off Heat Death of the Universe Slow, Like, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Obsession, Occasional fluff, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Deputy deserves none of this, The Seeds are a mess y'all, Threats of Violence, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 11:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 108,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16575428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd
Summary: A soulmark - the first Words of your soulmate - is a promise.  It's supposed to be beautiful, the mark of love and devotion, ofbelonging.  It's supposed to be the start of your fairy tale, the "Once upon a time" that begins your union with the rest of your soul.  It's supposed to be a lot of things.  But not everyone gets a fairy tale.  For some people, really, a soulmark is just the writing that follows you on the road deeper down into hell.Abandon hope, for once upon a time...





	1. Hide Your Soul Out of His Reach

**Author's Note:**

> _I DID IT!!! WHOOOO!!! *runs in circles with hands in the air while screaming incomprehensibly*_
> 
>  
> 
> _Ahem. Ok so - this is coming out a bit later than I was hoping and significantly sooner than I feared, which just about makes my year. Seriously y'all, I finished an entire sequel **within the same year** as I published the first fic. This is a _**big**_ deal for me._
> 
>  
> 
> _Right, self-administered back-pats out of the way, on to some mechanical details. I was _actually_ planning to post this chapter _last_ Friday; however, I got _really_ sick last week. So, to make up for that, I'll be posting another chapter on Monday, after which updates will - baring any unforeseen circumstances - happen on Fridays. In the event I can't make that update for some reason, I'll try to post on Saturday instead. Also, as a thing I'm currently trying to see if I like, I'll be putting individual chapter warnings in the End Notes._
> 
>  
> 
>  _Thank you all so much for your patience, and I hope you enjoy the next installment of SWAC - Sealed With A Curse, subtitle: I do horrible things to a fictional character who deserves none of them and feel not the least bad about it. Complete with overly flowery title!_
> 
>  
> 
> _Alright then chums, let's do this! Nooooooo regreeeeeeeets!_

The worst day of Robin Baird’s life leads directly into the worst month plus of her life.

Because of _course_ it does, why _wouldn’t_ it?

From the moment she wakes up zip-tied to a bed frame in Dutch Roosevelt’s bunker she knows what she’s going to do; and is it ever a relief when the beautiful old bastard cuts her loose to do it.

She’s going to stop the Project at Eden’s Gate. She’s going to save people. And she’s going to _fix_ things.

And she really, really wishes there was a way to do all that that didn’t involve mountains of corpses or a river of blood dripping off her hands even after she _knows_ that she’s washed them, but the further down the Se… the Peggies fucked up rabbit hole she goes the less possible that seems.

So she cuts a bloody swath through Hope County’s cult population. Starts off in Holland Valley, gets herself a dog, blows the shit out of some drug silos and clears cultists out of Sunrise Farm. Then she doubles back, ducks across the river to Henbane, starts exploding shrines and drug boats because _fuck_ that Bliss stuff in the _ear_. Then Dutch gives her some intel that sends her back to Holland Valley, and suddenly she’s got a pilot on _her_ side and no small sense of juvenile glee at wrecking shit all over the pretty, pretty Seed Ranch (and see, she can say the word, she’s not scared). After that she ghosts through the Whitetail Mountains – blows more shit up, frees more people, makes some interesting new friends. And then she… keeps going. Makes her way through Hope County like a particularly erratic wildfire – jumping from region to region as randomly as she can, trying to stay unpredictable and undetected and ahead of the various capture parties she’s head such horror stories about. The plan is to just do her job and stay off the radar.

She accomplishes _one_ of those things.

The people of Hope County stare when she passes, their shoulders lifting and mouths smiling and eyes brightening with something that _scares_ her. When she talks they _listen_ and when she _doesn’t_ talk – much more common, to be honest – they watch and whisper and wait. They call her The Deputy, The _Rook_ , the one who walks into hell and pulls them from the Devil’s grasp. She tries very, very hard not to think about how much they can sound like Peggies, singing praises to their Father and Heralds. She wants to stop them, tell them not to put their trust and hopes in _her_ , that she’s just the _rookie_ , just the one idiot that was too lucky or too stupid to get caught. But she thinks that if she does that, if she snatches that frail little ray of hope from these poor bastards, then she might just as well start carving lies into their skins and tossing them into cages. So she lets them watch, and talk, and _hope_ and tries not to feel like the world’s biggest con artist.

The Peggies keep a watch out for her too, but in their case it’s much less to receive marching orders and hope and much more to deliver judgment and bullets. Weirdly, that’s a little easier to deal with, at least some days. They call her The Deputy and The Rook too, but they say it differently – packing entire worlds of hate and disgust (and a steadily growing sense of _fear_ ) into the words. They call her other things too – Heretic and Sinner and Whore (and, ok, arguments _could_ be made for the first two, but she’s got to object _strenuously_ to that last one. Seriously, even if she _weren’t_ a virgin there hasn’t exactly been _time_ for any action since all these cult shenanigans started). Somewhere around liberating Fall’s End the names start getting more… _more_. Now they call her The Deceiver, The Destroyer, The Harbinger. They call her The Devil’s Herald, a comparison to their own hierarchy that she’s not particularly ok with. They call her _Wrath_. They call her The Angel of Death. … _That_ one’s actually pretty damn _badass_ , and Robin doesn’t mind in the least when her people pick it up and _run_ with it.

Of course Joh… other people pick up on her growing stable of monikers, and have taken to sneering and taunting her with them over the radio. She tries to ignore those calls – ignore the fire and the electricity that runs under her skin and in her veins when they come – as best she can, closes her eyes and bites her tongue and tries to think of _anything_ else, wanting but not daring to break her radio into tiny pieces.

So she fights, and she kills, and she saves, and she destroys, and – eventually – it becomes a new kind of normal.

All in all her life’s gotten pretty well fucked.

At least, Robin thinks – watching a couple resistance fighters role some Peggy corpses onto a bonfire ( _“normal,” haha, fuck everything_ ) – she’s not alone on her derailed rollercoaster ride into hell. She’s got people who started as allies or assets or something, who up and leapfrogged the friend stage and decided to become family. She’s got Dutch, and she’s got Kim and Mary May and Pastor Jerome and even Eli Palmer, and she tore her way through Faith’s zombie army – no, _seriously, **fuck** the Bliss **so hard**_ – and got Sheriff Whitehorse back. And she’s got a dog. And a cougar. And a _**bear**_ , which means that at least _one_ of her childhood dreams hasn’t died screaming and on fire.

And so Robin straps on her bow, gathers up her ragtag crew of misfits, and takes the fight to Eden’s Gate. So she fights and she kills and she bleeds and she doesn’t stop. She lets the people of Hope County call her by titles, whisper stories about her, look to her like she’s some kind of leader, some kind of hero, some kind of savior, and she swallows her screams of fear and denial. She tears herself to pieces, beats herself bloody, and throws herself into the fire to take back their homes, friends, families, hopes and dreams. And when someone speaks up, tells her to rest, tells her it isn’t her responsibility to fix everything, save everyone, then she smiles and nods and charges back into the war.

She doesn’t tell them that it _is_ her responsibility to fix what the Seeds have broken.

They wouldn’t understand.

##############

8-Bit Pizza might be Robin’s favorite place on Earth.

It has everything going for it: mostly intact, surrounded by a buffer of mostly Peggy-free territory, and – most importantly – _pizza_. Mass produced, dubiously edible, frozen pizza, yes, but again. _Pizza_.

Also the whole feel of it is just kind of nice, and lends itself to pretending like the world outside isn’t a cult-ruled nightmare.

All in all, it probably isn’t a huge surprise that Robin’s people – and _somehow_ , amidst all the monikering going on in Hope County, they don’t have a cool group name (though Hurk, Nick, and weirdly enough Jess have been trying to get The Super-Glorious Bastards to take off which, ok point for the Tarantino reference, Robin doubts will get off the ground) – had taken one look at the place and collectively said “dibs.”

Ok, only a couple of them had actually _said_ dibs, but the others had clearly been thinking it.

But still. _Their_ place. Their little whittled out pocket of sanctuary in the middle of hell; warmed by camaraderie and buoyed by frozen cheese-covered cardboard and cheap beer. They take shifts getting drunk, pull out decks of cards, make up random games and contests, more and more frequently dissolve into karaoke jam sessions of varying degrees of skill, and just… act like human beings. Just for a little bit, before the metaphorical midnight comes and they turn back into murder pumpkins (and, actually, _that’s_ a group moniker Robin could be onboard with, though she’s not sure anyone else’d go for it).

Robin’s actually thinking about pumpkins – actual edible ones, not murderous ones – when it finally happens.

She’s lying in a cocoon of quasi-domesticated animal – Hope County facts: bears make the best backrests, a purring cougar blanket over your feet is nirvana, and there is nothing better in the _world_ than cuddling up with a Good Boy. Dog. Good Boy Dog – letting her mind drift lazily from subject to cult-and-murder-free subject, when a burst of bright, beautiful, _human_ laughter pulls her mind back into the land of the living.

The current center of attention is Nick, standing up and in full storytelling mode. He’s paused whatever he’s saying while the others laugh and shake their heads, Grace’s got a hand over her face and is moaning “No, you _didn’t_ ,” while Addie titters and drawls back “Boy in love? Of _course_ he did,” and Jess yells at everyone to shut up and “What happened next?”

Nick, laughing through a flush of tipsiness and fond embarrassment, shrugs. “I mean, obviously I took off down the mountain.” Whatever he says next gets swallowed by a burst of laughter and, blushing more, he has to say it again. “And I kind of realize that she’s yelling _something_ at me, but the car and the wind are really loud and I might be screaming and anyway I’m already half-way down the track – so I don’t hear her – and then that’s when the _deer_ appears –” Another wave of laughter drowns him out, and he ends up false-starting three times before he can swallow his own cackles, “And I’m… I… I don’t want to _hit_ the stupid thing, cause, I mean, I’d _die_ , and anyway it’s not my car, so I swerve. Only now I’m in the middle of the forest, so I’m pretty sure I’m still going to die, so I slam on the breaks and –” and here Nick mistimes a quick chug on his beer and breaks off coughing.

The others laugh harder, except Hurk, who stares up at Nick with huge eyes. “Did you die?”

“Did I – ?!” Nick stares at him, red faced and incredulous, coughing violently. “ _No_ , Hurk, I didn’t _die_.” He coughs again, then flushes even more as he admits, “I… did end up with the car on its side though. And wedged between two trees.”

Everyone dies a little, laughing.

Now fully red faced, Nick barely waits for them to start quieting down, just raising his voice over their hysteria. “So then I’m trying to get out of the car, but the seatbelt’s stuck and, again, I’m _sideways_ , and all the sudden the crazy pretty girl that I was trying to impress in the first place is staring at me through the window, and she’s crying and slapping at me, and I’m going all ‘what the hell, quit it,’ and _then_ –“ Nick’s smile could light up the whole county as he abruptly tugs off his shirt, rolling his right shoulder forward and turning so everyone can see the spidery black Words that sprawl over and around his shoulder blade in a panicky slash.

Robin’s heart stops.

She watches the others through a fog. Watches Sharky read _**“You thundering dumbass! What is wrong with you?!”**_ off Nick’s skin. Watches everyone laugh and cheer and slap Nick on the back and over the head. Watches Jess slap the table, bark out “That’s nothing,” and prop her leg up on a chair, tugging up her pants’ leg to show off the block of Asian calligraphy that wraps around her calf in a wave of ashy gray. Watches the others cheer again. Watches Jess throw her head back and _laugh_ , looking so genuinely happy for once, crow “No moron, South Korean,” and “got it translated once: _**Truly, a bow in the hands of a master is beautiful beyond words**_!” Watches the others applaud, pretend to swoon, clap Jess on the shoulders. Watches her team – her friends, her _family_ – revel and celebrate and she – 

She…

“Robin?”

Grace’s voice cuts through the fog, cuts through the laughter, and suddenly she blinks and everyone’s staring at her like… like…

“Robby? Wha-” Nick’s smile is _gone_ as he takes a stuttered half step towards her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She stares at her family, dizzily, and even though she knows they’re within feet of her her mind keeps telling her they’re miles away, fading into distance and fog. She thinks she’s about to be sick and… and…

_She has to tell them._

The thought hits her like a bullet – a sharp shock of cold that spreads into confused numbness before tearing through her in a sudden rush of heat and _pain_.

She has to tell them, because if she doesn’t then – sooner or later – they’re going to find out by themselves. Hell, it’s a _miracle_ no one’s found out _yet_. Between the bullets and the arrows and the explosions and the damn drugged out wild animals, between running for their lives and trying to patch themselves up after, sooner or later someone’s going to _see_. _Hell_ , it was just a few days ago that she and Jess had nearly gotten eaten by a pack or whatever of wolverines, and escaping had left Robin without her damn _pants_. All that’s needed is for her bandages to get too wet, to get snagged on something, and unravel off her left hand and wrist. All that’s needed is for a Peggy to get a lucky shot, catch her in the chest or shoulder, leaving one of the others to tear off her shirt to stop her bleeding out. All that’s needed is for her jacket, rather than her pants, to be the casualty next time, leaving a bare expanse of neck between her shirt and her plaited hair. All that’s needed is for _one_ thing to go wrong, and they’ll all _know_.

Robin blinks up at her family, then – fighting for breath – staggers to her feet, reaching for the bandages on her left wrist.

She can see the confusion on most of their faces, but Addie’s gone suddenly pale and Grace raises a hand quickly.

“Robin, stop.” The older woman’s eyes are gentle the way she makes them after a bad fight, when everyone’s gotten too turned around and she’s guiding them back to reason. “You don’t have to.” She sounds so _understanding_ as she waves a hand toward the offending wrist. “It’s none of our business.”

Robin’s heart stops again, a wave of numb _despair_ flooding through, and some of it must show because when she meets Grace’s eyes the soldier’s next words cut off and she _flinches_.

Robin holds her gaze for a moment, then heaves a shuddery little breath. “Yeah…” she’s barely whispering, but her voice echoes through the room, “it kind of is.”

It’s cruel how easily the bandage tugs free.

She unwinds it, stepping slowly closer to the others, then lets it fall to the floor before shrugging off her jacket and tugging off her shirt, and suddenly she’s fifteen again, standing in the campgrounds on Kershaw’s Peak in front of her friends in nothing but her boots, pants, and bra – soulmarks on display.

Only this time nobody reads them. Nobody tracks the Words that circle around her hand and wrist, nobody even moves to look at the one she indicates on the back of her neck. This time they’re already gasping, staring, turning sickly pale the _second_ she pulls off her shirt and bares the ‘mark on her chest.

John Seed’s handwriting is already on display all over Hope County, after all.

Robin can feel the Words crawling under her skin, burning and tearing and poisoning with new life now that they’re exposed again. She feels like she’s about to throw up, or shake apart, or crumble into ash on the spot. “I…” her voice is smaller, weaker, more hollow than it’s ever been, “I –”

Even she may never know what she was going to say, because suddenly Grace is moving, closing the distance between them, and Robin just closes her eyes and waits – 

Grace’s arms close around her, pull her in, press her face into Grace’s shoulder as her voice – _thundering_ with emotion, heartbreak and agony and righteous fury and _adoration_ fighting desperately to come across – floods through and over and into her. “It’s not your fault. It is _not_ your _fault_. You hear me?!” She pulls back just enough to guide Robin’s head up, to stare into her eyes, tears _streaming_ down the older woman’s usually stoic face. “ _None_ of this is _your fault_.” And then she’s pulled Robin back again, curled around her like a suit of armor, whispering into her hair over and over and over, like she’s trying to force the Words off Robin’s skin and replace them with her own.

And it all happens in a second, and in the next Addie’s moaning out “Oh… oh sweetie…” like her heart’s breaking, and she’s crossed over and is wrapping her arms around Robin too, and across the room Jess is _screaming_ , “Mother _fuckers_! Those _sick_ _mother **fuckers**_!” and throwing a chair against the wall, stomping the pieces to splinters.

And then Nick’s curled himself into the gap between Grace and Addie, trembling and dripping tears down her shoulder as he mutters, “It’s going to be ok. I-it’s going to be ok, we’ll… we’ll fix this, we’ll…” like he’s trying to convince himself as well as her, but then Sharky’s got a death grip on _both_ of her hands and he sounds so damn _serious_ when he says “Of _course_ we are. We’re going to _kill_ those sick fuckers, and then you’re not going to have to worry about it Boss, not _any_ of it, not ever again,” and Hurk doesn’t say a word but sort of snakes a hand through the tangle of bodies and starts stroking her hair, a little awkwardly but impossibly gentle.

They’re clustered around her, like they’re trying to physically hold her together, and when her legs finally buckle they sink down to the floor with her, like the world’s strangest pile of puppies.

Something slams into the knot of bodies, rocks them, then forces its way between Grace and Nick and suddenly Robin’s got a dog in her face, Boomer licking her and whimpering and trying to make her better. And that’s barely happened before Jess has taken advantage of the break he made, is shoving her own way in and wrapping her arms around Robin’s waist and holding on like she’s scared the deputy will disappear. And there’s a split-second where it looks like they’re all about to be bowled over, but then Cheeseburger just gives a soft, snuffly, sad bear noise and settles down to rest his giant head against her outstretched leg, and Peaches is sitting a ways out and purring _furiously_ , like she’s daring them all to not be comforted.

And Robin…

Robin doesn’t cry in public. Not ever. Not when she was small, not when she’s tired and scared and hurt, not when she’s bleeding out in some Peggy-defiled hell. And Robin doesn’t cry now.

There, on the floor of some crappy pizza bar, skin bare and soul raw, surrounded by the people who have become her family, Robin _breaks_.

She’s _sobbing_ , gasping, practically _convulsing_ on the floor. She’s trembling so violently it _hurts_ , as she cries and cries and cries like a lost, scared little girl.

And the others just hold her through it all. Whisper and snarl and weep their promises of protection and absolution and vengeance.

And something inside Robin – some little knot in her soul of raw pain and fear and disgust and guilt – finally _bursts_ , like someone’s cut into the flesh of a festering wound, releasing a flood of rot and poison that’s been eating her alive since she was six years old.

Robin Baird is twenty-two years old, trapped in hell with no end in sight, branded with the worst soulmarks and bound to the worst soulmates she can imagine. 

But she’s not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: None, really. Don't get used to it.
> 
> _And there it is - chapter one. One small step for me, one... small step for me. Neat._
> 
> _So, as an interesting note... my initial plan when I finished the general outline and started work on this was that I would write up until I hit the halfway point, and start posting weekly while I worked on the second half. Then, as I neared the aforementioned halfway point, something occurred to me: the halfway point really felt more like the natural **End** of one fic, while the "second half" felt more like the natural **Start** of a second fic. Also... as I neared the "halfway point" I realized that I was looking at about double the wordcount/length I had initially anticipated. So. Where initially_ Write Your Words on My Skin _was the first part of a duo, to be followed by an individual - two parts plus epilogue - sequel, what we're now looking as is a trilogy of fics. What does this change for all of you? Honestly not that much, the outline of the entire story is still the same and I'm still going to try and post weekly while I work on the next part. I just felt like sharing._
> 
> _Well, that's my largely pointless ramble for the day. Hope y'all liked this first bit and I'll see you next Friday!_
> 
>  
> 
> _Title comes from "Soldier" by Fleurie. Because that's just kind of the way Robin's life is going atm._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _(Things are going to get so much worse...)_


	2. Let Her Drown Alive

The aftermath of her confession is – astoundingly – not awkward. 

True, the subject of soulmates and soulmarks come up less. Also discussions about Eden’s Gate and the toppling thereof become more generalized affairs, with significantly fewer references made to what - exactly - should be done to the Seed family and where - precisely - they should go. _(It also goes without saying that Addie and Sharky’s “fuck John” jokes end **immediately** )._ But beyond that… nothing much.

Actually the most awkward thing is that - after everyone seeing her in her bra - Addie has started up a steady stream of comments and jokes about her tits.

They do also start referring to each of the Seed brothers as “you-know-who” at seemingly random moments – which is both a little awkward and frequently confusing – up until the point that Sharky and Jess do it in front of Nadine Abercrombie, who looks very confused and concerned at Robin and asks “Why exactly are we worrying about Lord Voldemort now?” at which point the whole thing stops being awkward and becomes _hilarious_ and half of them – of course – start referring to each Seed brother as “Voldemort” at seemingly random moments.

There’s some changes, of course, aside from these conversational shifts. They are much more attentive to her after a fight now – the second the last Peggy’s down Robin’s got one of her team on her, checking her over for injuries and making sure she’s properly covered up. They’re twitchier about the subject of capture parties too. Not that the thought wasn’t always a concern, but after the big reveal they’ve taken to snarling at any mention, keeping their eyes and ears pealed all the more. Hell, Jess outright starts up a fistfight with a Whitetail who makes a – admittedly ill-conceived – joke about Robin getting taken on purpose so she can have a better shot at killing a Seed.

The biggest shift, though, revolves around the radio.

Holland Valley’s always been the worst in that regard – Jacob is a mercifully taciturn man, it seems, and her hatred for Faith is blissfully (ugh, pun _not_ intended) born from basic human decency and outrage on the behalf of others, but John…

John.

John Seed will just not shut the _fuck up_.

Which… 

And it’s not as though the _content_ of the shit he spews isn’t bad _enough_ , but…

She hadn’t realized it with Joseph. It hadn’t even _occurred_ to her that there might be some reason why his voice affected her so much. Why listening to him purr his madness over the phone’s tinny speakers had left her feeling exposed, had sent currents of electricity running along her skin. But now she _knows_ and now she can’t just ignore it every time John’s voice comes over her radio.

_Resonance._

That little whisper in your head, in your skin, in your _soul_ that hears a voice lilting over some artificial channel and says “ _Here_. Here I am. Come find me.” Because even though a bond can only be _Resolved_ in person, every soulmarked person _knows_ the voice of their soulmate somewhere in the fibers of their being.

Before that night at 8-Bit, she’d torn her way through the Peggies while John Seed’s voice Resonated through her, while he spat hate and malice and poison at her over the radio, tearing pieces out of her even as it called her home – like she was tangled in razor-wire and John had hold of the ends, opening her and spilling her blood as he wrapped her up and tried to pull her towards him.

Now, though, the _second_ John starts talking the others close ranks around her, take a hand in theirs, wrap an arm around her shoulder, stand close and hum until John’s voice is muffled and almost bearable. Sometimes, on the bad days, one of them will take the radio and walk away from her, only coming back once the latest tirade has ended, filling her in on anything she actually needs to know.

It’s not perfect. But it helps.

So she keeps going – jumps from territory to territory, blows shit up, saves people, and liberates outposts. She kills Peggies, puts down Judges, and burns their Bliss fields and icons of worship. She snarls and swings at images of Faith, dreads Jacob’s rare speeches, and clings to her new found family through John’s rants and threats.

And then – just as she’s starting to think she’s getting away with it – John’s voice comes purring over her radio again, and Robin learns firsthand that Bliss bullets are a _bitch._

##############

She slowly comes to her senses in a world on fire.

Flames lick over her skin, force their way into her mouth and down her throat and into her lungs. Her eyes fly open and the flames flood into them, searing and blinding her. She tries to struggle, to escape the fire, but the flames have burned her limbs, locked her muscles, and she can’t pull away from the hands that hold her inside the inferno.

Then, just as blackness begins creep into her vision again, she is pulled upright.

Robin chokes, retches, heaves violently as water surges up from her lungs and spews from her lips. Air rushes over her face and arms and torso, and the flames instantly turn to ice, cutting over her skin and locking her in place as she tries futilely to breathe. 

Her lungs have just begun to work again – drawing in violent, ragged breaths that feels like broken glass is being shoved down her throat – when the hands on her tighten, pressing into her senseless flesh and pulling her frozen body through the water, dragging her towards the blinding light and the sound of lightning and fire –

“Not this one.”

Robin’s body shudders as best it can, the hidden skin beneath her left collarbone suddenly blazing to life like someone’s touched a burning coal to it. Her eyes fly up, staring blankly for a moment before her vision clears. 

Her soulmate meets her gaze.

She shudders again, Words pulsing in her flesh, and all she wants is to fall into his arms, to press her face into his neck, curl into his chest, let him hold her and chase away the fear and the pain and the cold. She wants him to _speak_ to her, wants to speak to _him_ , wants his Words and her Words to blaze to life and seal the cords that bind them together. 

She wants to feel _safe_ again. 

She wants her _soulmate_.

She wants so desperately she’s able to force her body to obey, to let her lips part and her lungs fill, to let fire and electricity flay her tongue open and – 

He steps towards her, keeps his eyes on her, reaches out to her, and speaks to the hands that held her down. “This one’s not clean.”

Hands tear into the skin of her shoulders, nails biting through her clothes and into her skin, her head snaps back and forth like a rag doll as she is shoved backwards, and she has just enough time to see perfectly blue eyes fill with hate and anger and disgust before her soulmate forces her back beneath the water.

The water floods over her, into her again, burning and freezing her as those hands – _hishandshishandshishands_ – tear further and further into her skin.

He pulls her up again, cooing and purring in a sick mockery of comfort at her, face warped by a mask of cloying sympathy as he hushes her panicked, agonized gasps. His thumbs rub tiny circles on her shoulders, the tenderness agonizing as he tilts his head to the side, hunger bleeding into his gaze, then – face warping again into something cruel and hateful and feral – he’s shoving her back towards the water and – 

“Do you mock the Cleansing, John?”

Robin and her soulmate gasp as one, bodies freezing as the Voice sends lightning through their skin, into their veins, down and down and down into their hearts.

She barely registers it as the hate drains from his face, a perfect moment of blissful adoration crossing his features, before that too melts away and flitters into something like _fear_.

Then the cold settles back into her core, the world around her filling with fog and sparks of unearthly light as her body starts shutting down. Distantly, she hears John try to respond, to justify himself, only for the Voice to cut him off. She shudders, convulses at the Voice. Can hear its words but can’t wrap her head around them – not that it matters, so long as she can _listen_ to it, let it wash over her, wash away all the pain and fear and confusion. 

So long as it makes her soulmate stop hurting her.

Another set of hands – too firm at first, then impossibly light, like they’re afraid of the Voice ( _Why? It’s so **beautiful**. Why would the hands be afraid of something so beautiful?_) – take her by the arm, pull her towards the lights again.

Towards the _Voice_.

She sees a figure standing in the light – an angel? Her angel? – with arms held open for her, and she wants her body to work again, to let her rush forward and fall into those arms – the arms that open to her, that don’t _reject_ her, don’t want to cause her pain ( _Want me. **Please** want me. I’m not broken, I’m not worthless, I’m **not**. Please, **please** want me_).

Gentle hands come to rest on her shoulders, soothing away the pain and the cold, draw her in closer so the angel can look directly into her eyes. The Voice speaks to her again, and she can’t make the words make sense, but she can _feel_ them, feel the kindness and the forgiveness and the sorrow pouring into her, channeling through the Words on her wrist, flooding through her veins and filling her with the promise of _belonging_.

She looks at her angel – her _soulmate_ , her _first_ , the one who _found_ her, _called_ her, breathed _life_ into the Words on her skin – and her mouth falls open. The Words flood into her mouth – _help me_ , _make him stop_ , _please I’m sorry_ , _what did I do wrong_ , _why is he hurting me?_ – and rush over her heavy tongue, pressing desperately against her teeth, her lips trembling as she tries to make them come out. 

Only for them to crumble to ash.

Her mouth trembles and her breath shudders and her Words die behind her lips, and when his hands leave her she wants to _scream_ , wants to _sob_ , wants to **_beg_** for his touch again. She watches her soulmate turn to the other – _hers_ , _her_ soulmate, _their_ soulmate – and speak again, and she wants to throw herself into his/his/their arms and _weep_ , wants to chase away the sorrow that floods through his words and feel their light and love burn through her until there’s _nothing left_.

She tries to force her tongue to move, her mouth to work, her _Words_ to _live_. She _wants_ it, more than she’s ever wanted anything in her life, so she _forces_ her lips apart again and…

And then he turns. 

He walks away.

Her soulmate turns his back on her and leaves her behind, and Robin’s heart breaks again.

She stares after him, falling to pieces, until there’s hands on her again, one claw like on her shoulder and the other curling up into her hair, twisting and tightening and tugging her head into place as her other soulmate turns his gaze back to her and suddenly all she can see anymore is the _hate_ in his eyes and –

_**“You will confess. Every sin you’ve ever committed. No matter how petty, no matter how small… I will pull from you. Then we’ll see if you’re worthy of Atonement.”** _

The Words _cut_ into the skin below her collarbone – above her _heart_ – and the fire floods back into her, burning and clawing and tearing its way through her, ripping and flaying her to pieces as it goes. The _agony_ of it is unlike anything she’s ever felt in her life, and she _shudders_ , _gasps_ , feels her eyes stutter wide and burn with tears, and her soulmate…

Her soulmate looks at her agony and he _smiles_.

He’s hurting her. Hurting her worse than she’s ever been hurt before and it fills him with _joy_ , and _hunger_ , and the desire for _more_ , and she can’t understand _why_.

She barely registers his dismissive nod when it comes, barely feels the other hand that takes her by the arm and pulls her away from her soulmate – and even in her agony she wants to fight that, wants to throw herself into his arms, drop down onto her knees at his feet, cling to him as she cries and begs and pleads for forgiveness, for _answers_ , for him to tell her _why_ he’s hurting her and _why_ he doesn’t want her and what she’s _done_ to deserve _any_ of this. But she can’t fight. Her body’s too weak and her Words are burning too painfully and the light around her is blinding as it rushes up and – 

##############

She comes to – sort of – in the back of a truck with two civilians, a Peggy, and an overwhelmingly hollow ache in her chest.

Her head’s cleared up since the river, thoughts and limbs back under her control. She can see the fear in the civilian man’s eyes, the empty despair in the woman’s, and about a dozen different ways she could kill the Peggy, take his gun, and get them all out to freedom.

She doesn’t move.

Can’t seem to muster the _will_.

Not that it matters, in the end. 

Something rams the truck, sends them flying, and she blacks out for a second before waking up on the ceiling, the civilians motionless and the Peggy twitching next to her. Someone’s voice cuts through the ringing in her ears, familiar and extremely welcome in a way she can’t _quite_ place just yet, and she finds herself moving instinctually towards the doors. Something shuffles behind her. She turns to look into the Peggy’s eyes just in time to watch a bullet shoot through his skull and splatter his brains over the van and the dead civilians, and then…

And then Pastor Jerome’s there, pulling her out and to her feet, cutting her free, and suddenly Robin’s moving again, losing herself in the danger and the adrenaline and the pure, beautiful clarity of _rage_.

Later, limbs shaking and pulse racing with exhaustion and adrenaline, throat on fire and eyes and nose burning from the smoke, ears pounding from the bullets and the mortars and the screams, she staggers out of a helicopter, forces her feet to stay under her, and finds herself looking into Grace’s eyes.

The other woman stares at her for a second, then – jaw tensing at whatever she sees – barks out a few orders to the surrounding Resistance members before moving over to Robin – slowly, quietly, like she’s approaching a wild animal – and putting a hand on her arm. 

It takes everything she has to wait until she’s in the truck, wait until the others’ voices are washing over her and Boomer’s scrambling up into her lap, whining and licking her face hysterically. She waits until the engine roars to life and they start moving away from the other Resistance fighters. Then, and only then, does Robin let her head fall onto Grace’s shoulder as she cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Nonconsensual drug-use, Torture/Drowning
> 
> _In which Robin has amazing friends, (another) really bad day, the Bliss is problematic, and the Seeds are (still) ~~psychotic bastards~~ ~~oblivious~~... seriously oblivious psychotic bastards._
> 
> _And, also... yes, Virginia. Yes I **did** just have another bond Resolve on Robin without the Seeds learning anything. Why did I do this? Well, I suppose that either I like building tension and anticipation and this is just the necessary first step in the overall plot... or I'm a mean spirited garbage person. You be the judge :)_
> 
> _Hope y'all enjoyed this bit, and I'll see you Friday! ^x^/_
> 
>  
> 
> _Title comes from "Bottom of the River" by Delta Rae. Because **that's not how baptisms WORK, JOHN!**_


	3. Interlude: Jacob - Everything a Big Bad Wolf Could Want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And now for something completely different._

The hour of Joseph’s “Reaping” has almost arrived, tension thick in the air like ozone before a storm, and it’s driving Jacob insane.

He’s not the only one – John’s almost puppy-like in his anticipation, running here and there, getting into everything with his checks and double-checks, circling back to Joseph for soothing words and reassuring touches, looking up at Jacob with manic, fervent glee burning in his eyes and smile. Faith’s anxious – enough so that she’s actually entered into Jacob’s awareness, when he’s usually content to forget she exists – flitting around, touching everyone and doling out pretty smiles that don’t reach her eyes. The cultists – faithful, disciples, children, whatever – are in various stages of nerves, some with the anticipation barely evident in their eyes while others are just about ready to vibrate to pieces. Joseph appears to be calm, serene as he waits for it all to begin, but Jacob knows better, can see the vaguest hints of longing and fear and _doubt_ hiding in his soulmate’s eyes.

The air in Joseph’s church is electric as his little brother – his soulmate, his guiding light, his Joseph – preaches, as they wait and wait and wait for the invasion to kick everything off.

When Jacob finally hears the thrum of the helicopter he nearly _groans_ in relief.

Seconds tick by, the tension in the air rising and rising to a fever pitch when finally – _finally_ – the doors swing open and the enemy appears before Jacob’s eyes.

Joseph keeps running his usual spiel – hellfire and damnation and salvation – but for once Jacob’s not really paying attention to his little brother. No, bizarrely enough his attention is on the unfamiliar figure walking up the aisle towards them, a pace between Sheriff Whitehorse and the marshal, looking so completely out of place and…

His first instinct is to throw his head back and _laugh_ at the image before him. Whitehorse, the model of a reliable, grizzled, good-ole county sheriff. Burke, muscle-bound and square-jawed, swaggering like the big swinging dick he thinks he is. And, there between them, the new junior deputy – a fucking Hollywood cop. Because there’s no other way to describe the woman who’s walked into the belly of the beast to arrest its soul, looking like she’s gotten lost and wandered off the set of some prime-time police procedural. Tall and fit, broad shouldered and perfectly curved wide hips, a nearly perfect and perfectly natural hourglass figure (only slightly offset by the distinctly compacted bust of someone wearing a high-impact sports bra, like MacDougal...) that would make a Victoria Secret model _weep_ with envy. She looks like she’s got the rare breed of naturally fair skin that warms – rather than tans or burns – in the sun, and all of it he can see is dotted with constellations of dark freckles (and, credit where it’s due, quite a few scars that she hasn’t bothered covering up). Even from a distance he can see that she’s got a face people would kill to put on a TV screen or magazine cover, and her tightly plaited hair is red enough to make _his_ look dull. There’s no two ways about it – she’s _stunning_. She’s almost exactly what the media likes to pretend cops look like, and just about _nothing_ like what they _do_ and Jacob doesn’t know whether to laugh or snarl in disgust as the pretty little deputy – tense as a spring and trying to look brave – follows the actual cops up to them and –

And suddenly Jacob sees _red_.

Thanks to Nancy they knew about the new junior deputy the second she was hired, but none of them really paid any _attention_ to the new player in Hope County. Now though she’s right in front of him, walking unprotected and unaware into _hell_ , and she’s a _fucking **child**_. Not just a new hire, not just someone who kicked around the world before deciding to play police. No. Standing in front of him is a _genuine_ rookie. Someone just out of school and into their first job. Someone who cannot _possibly_ be more than a year or two into her twenties. A little girl – freckled, fair skin sickly pale with nerves, big green eyes darting warily around the building, muscles tensed and ready for a fight – who’s been thrown to the wolves like a lost little lamb. 

Something inside Jacob – the soldier, the brother, the last shred of _human_ – rears its head suddenly, bringing a swell of righteous indignation, of _hate_ for the two stupid, prideful, _reckless_ men who have brought someone who can barely be called an adult into the middle of enemy territory. Jacob doesn’t want to laugh anymore. No, now he wants to put his hands around Whitehorse’s neck and _twist_ , to drive the butt of his pistol into Burke’s face until there’s nothing left but raw _meat_. Because these _idiots_ have taken someone under their command, someone who cannot _possibly_ be prepared, cannot have any kind of experience to deal with what she’s been thrown into, and they’ve dragged her straight to her damnation. He wonders if either man feels even a shred of guilt over having very probably signed the girl’s death warrant. He wonders if it’s even _occurred_ to them what would happen to her if Eden’s Gate was _anything_ like they believe it to be – if they’ve even thought about how the best a girl like that could hope for would be to be raped to death in the first assault, rather than get taken alive and spend the rest of her “life” chained to a bed as some high-ranked cultist’s playtoy and baby mill.

Maybe, with a few years experience, she could’ve been the right choice for the job they’ve thrown at her. Hell, even now he can see the hints of _something_ in the girl – who, like Whitehorse and unlike Burke, seems to at least be aware of how much danger they’re in. It’s something in the way she keeps her stance balanced, all set to fight or to run. It’s in the way she keeps her gloved hand ready, not close enough to her gun to be threatening or too far from it to be of any use. It’s in the way she’s obviously keeping her fear and her nerves on a leash, fighting to keep her head above water and her mind on task. It’s something that, with time and patience and care, someone could train up right. It’s something that _he_ could hone into _strength_.

It’s such a fucking _waste_.

He tries to force his anger back under his control, but for some reason he can’t keep his eyes off the girl for long, and the rage just keeps simmering under the surface. 

The longer he stares the more she puts him in mind of the wolves he’s brought sometimes. The good ones. The _promising_ ones. The ones that he can take one look at and just _know_ that he’s about to get a fucking special Judge for his pack. They take work, of course; a careful balance of brutality and affection, so that the animal’s broken to his will without being broken. But once the work is done Jacob’s got something _beautiful_. Yeah, those ones he can always tell from the first glance – it’s something in the eyes.

And Whitehorse and the marshal may be sturdy old guard dogs – Whitehorse a better breed, if only slightly – but the girl with them… she’s got that something hidden away in those big green eyes.

She’s no government lapdog like the others – she’s a fucking _special_ little wolf bitch.

It’s like something’s woken up inside Jacob, all of a sudden, and even as he should be paying attention to Joseph all he can think is how much he wants to rip away the badge and the civilized veneer, rip out the weakness that makes her tremble, grab all that promise with both hands and shape and guide and reforge her. That – if he can possibly help it – he’s not going to let the junior deputy die, or get ruined off of Bliss or under John’s tender loving care.

No. _This_ one Jacob wants for his pack.

The marshal brings out his warrant, shouts down to Joseph like he’s got any kind of right, and the whole building erupts. The faithful are screaming with rage, closing in on the invaders – and, again, Jacob feels a flicker of pride and respect for the girl, who keeps her shit together even as Burke’s hand goes _flying_ to his gun, followed by a surge of fond amusement when, after Whitehorse has to reign in the idiot, she flicks the briefest look of pure disdain at the marshal. Faith huffs out a little breath, a deep current of rage hiding away under a veneer of condescending amusement – and if there’s at least _one_ aspect of Faith that Jacob can tolerate it’s the perfect depth of love and loyalty she holds for Joseph. John’s practically frothing at the insult, breathing like a predatory animal and grinding his teeth so hard Jacob can hear it. And Jacob? Even knowing that it’s all necessary, that it’s all part of Joseph’s plan, Jacob just wants to make his way down to them so that he can rip the presumptuous little _worm_ who fucking _dared_ to speak to his Joseph like that to pieces with his bare hands.

He’s not sure yet who’ll get each which government lackey when the Reaping begins, but Jacob’s starting to hope he gets the marshal. 

His Judges could use a new chew toy.

_His girl could use a proper training dummy._

Joseph alone appears unfazed by the insult. Just reaches his hands out, soothes his flock without raising his voice, sends them away – sends them off to _prepare_ – with a gentle reassurance and turns back to face his accusers. The cultists filter out slowly, still regarding the invaders with raw hate. A few of them actually bump into the deputy on their way out, little acts of pettiness from men who play brave by picking on the apparent weakest of a group. Jacob would be significantly more annoyed by the transparent _weakness_ of their actions if he wasn’t… confused, by the sudden change in the girl.

She’s gone weirdly still, eyes wide and focused on Joseph, seemingly oblivious to everything around her. Which, on some level, Jacob can understand – he better than _anyone_ knows how powerful, how _entrancing_ Joseph can be. And yet…

And then Joseph is speaking again, preaching with all the fire and fury inside him coiled tight, quiet and lethal, and still the marshal doesn’t seem to grasp how much danger they’re in. And still Whitehorse and the deputy don’t act on their instincts and pull _out_ of there and the girl is still just staring at Joseph, his hands now extended – playacting at surrender – towards her and – 

“Rookie, cuff this son of a bitch.”

Oh. Oh, Jacob’s going to make Burke’s death _last_.

And normally that thought would consume him, all sorts of plans and ideas cycling through the back of his mind while he kept his attention on the world before him, but now… Now he’s getting distracted by the scene in front of him again. Because Joseph’s attention is still on the girl, and he’s saying something to her, and all Jacob can see is the way she goes _still_ , goes deathly pale, stares up at Joseph like he’s just ripped her still beating heart out of her chest and taken a bite out of it. He watches as that cute little veneer of strength is suddenly ripped away, as the promising wolf bitch turns into a frightened, trembling little pup under the sheer _weight_ of his brother’s – his soulmate, his _salvation_ , _his Joseph_ – presence.

The shift is glorious and Jacob nearly growls as an overwhelming swell of _hunger_ springs up in him, and it takes everything he has to not vault his way across the room and pounce on the girl, and he’s not sure whether he wants to sink his teeth into her throat and swallow down the screams along with her flesh and blood, or if he wants to rip off her clothes, throw her down, and fuck her there in front of everyone on the floor of Joseph’s pretty little church.

He may have to ask Joseph what he said to her – the looks she’s wearing now is one Jacob could _definitely_ get used to.

It’s not fading, anyway, as the seconds pass; it just sort of… settles onto her face, and when the marshal barks at her again it’s more a conditioned response to the _command_ – to the voice of a superior officer – that puts the cuffs on Jacob’s little brother than any actual decision the girl makes ( _ **Obedient**_ , his mind purrs in satisfaction, _good girl_ ).

He sees the lines of Joseph’s back relax as the cuffs -click- shut around his wrists. He feels John tense, waves of hunger and anticipation bleeding off of him. He glimpses the twitch of smug satisfaction in Faith. And he sees the empty helplessness in the eyes of the junior deputy, the soul-crushing fear and despair of someone who’s realized that they’re staring directly into hell, just before she turns and – steady as a proper soldier ( _Good girl, such a **good girl** , oh **fuck** I'm going to make you into something **special**_ ) – walks Joseph out of the church and into their new world. 

And Jacob? 

Jacob just _smiles_ , ready and _hungry_ for everything that’s about to happen.

Something tells him that he’s going to be seeing the little deputy again, very, very soon. 

And he just can’t fucking _wait_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Implication of violence/brainwashing/torture/etc, possessive behavior, non-con elements, and unintentionally misogynistic language (curtesy of Jacob's wolf fetish).
> 
> _Alternative chapter title: How to **Not** Deal with Your Attraction to Another Human Being in a Healthy Way - By Jacob Seed. Featuring Robin Baird and the Very Bad Day Part I, from someone else's perspective._
> 
> _So the Ginger Wolfman returns, bringing aaaaaaaaall his issues with him. Ok, who am I kidding here, this didn't even remotely cover **half** of Jacob's issues. They will probably surface later; we **will** see Mr. The Soldier again._
> 
> _I had a long back and forth over the Robin-description section - largely because I have a long acknowledged problem with descriptions (if unchecked I can go full Tolkien with them) and it's always been really easy for me to slip into purple-prose while giving them. However, I ultimately decided that giving a really in-depth description of somebody would actually be really in-character for Jacob - he definitely seems the sort to obsessively detail and categorize people, looking for possible weakness and character insights. At least that's the justification I'm using to avail myself of the opportunity to finally give a description of Robin, without it being totally shoehorned._
> 
> _Welp, that's all for now. Hope you enjoyed, and I'll see y'all next time!_
> 
> _Title comes from "Little Red Riding Hood" by Sam Sham and the Pharaohs. Because after **that** performance by Jacob what **else** was it going to be?_


	4. Pay Him What He’s Due

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Surprise Monday chapter! After which I will, for reals this time, go back to posting on Fridays. But yeah, there's two reasons for this: first, because this is the last of the short chapters (from this point on everything's going to get a fair bit longer) and I felt a little iffy about posting just this for a full week's content; and second, because this chapter was initially part of the **next** chapter - I ended up separating the two because things were a little **too** long, but they still feel particularly connected in my head so I decided to put them in the same week. This has been your Pointless Service Announcement for the chapter._
> 
>  
> 
> _Enjoy! You monsters._

Robin is quiet for several hours after her “baptism.”

Then she stops being quiet and becomes fucking _pissed_ instead.

It’s probably a good thing they’ve crashed in some abandoned prepper bunker, because the noise she makes in her ensuing breakdown – screaming and cursing and slamming furniture against walls until _something_ gives her the satisfaction of breaking – would probably draw every Peggy in the valley if they were above ground.

Eventually she runs out of things to break, but the _rage_ is still there – burning through her skin and turning the world red before her eyes – so with another snarled curse she claws her way back up to the surface and goes looking for something else to destroy, a cluster of tensely quiet companions trailing after her like anxious ducklings.

There’s no subtlety in what follows. No restraint, no caution, no ghosting. She ignores her usual arrows and pulls out the explosive and incendiary ones, scrapes together a bag full of Molotovs and explosives, and rains **_fire_** down upon the cultists of Holland Valley.

It’s still not enough.

They’re stopped by somebody’s barn, Robin restocking off of Peggy corpses and MacGyvering some new explosives together while the others take a moment to breathe and talk up the idea of taking a break, of heading back to the Ryes’ or to Fall’s End, of maybe getting some actual sleep. Robin shoves a handful of nails into a mason jar and lets them talk.

Then, as Nick and Grace duck into the barn to see if the old truck inside can be coaxed back to life, Robin glances up and sees _it_ , and all the sudden her rage sharpens and focuses like she’s slapped a laser sight on it.

She rises all the way to her feet, shoulders her gear, and is already walking as she shoots a glance to Sharky and Hurk. “Well? You coming?”

They do, though they do it like kids cutting school for the first time – jittery and nervous and constantly shooting glances backwards and muttering under their breaths about how Grace is going to _kill_ them.

Robin lets their concerns wash over her like oil off plastic wrap and hijacks the first Peggy truck they come across, leaving its former owner in a smoldering heap on the road.

They drive and drive and drive through Holland Valley, occasionally pausing to take out patrols or prisoner vans, stopping once to mine the hell out of a stretch of road in front of a convoy, stopping again to steal a new truck when the one they’ve been using gets pretty thoroughly mangled in ramming a weapons truck off the road, before reaching as far as she feels like traveling by vehicle and leaving the truck behind to trek the rest of the way on foot.

And then, _finally_ , they’re there.

“We’re… really doing this.” Sharky sounds a touch nervous and more than a touch excited. And possibly a little aroused. “Aren’t we.”

“Voldemort’s gunna be _pissed_ ,” Hurk adds.

Robin smiles sweetly, nocks an explosive arrow, and blows the ever loving _fuck_ out of the Y on John Seed’s fugly ass YES sign.

She runs out of arrows before she runs out of sign, but Hurk wordlessly hands over his rocket launcher and, by the time the whole mess has been reduced to so much rubble, she’s actually starting to feel better.

Which, of course, is the point where her radio clicks back to life.

 _“When this little uprising is over,”_ John does, in fact, sound _pissed_ , the barely constrained _rage_ in his voice making her skin crawl amidst the prickle of lightning, _“you’ll rebuild that piece by piece. You’ll work until your fingers are worn to the bone. And when you’re done…”_ there’s a raw, cruel hunger underneath the savage growl, _“I’ll bury you beneath it.”_

Robin stares down at her now silent radio, vision swimming in a sea of bloody red. 

Her body is shaking uncontrollably – rage and pain and fear and soul-crushing despair warring it out inside her chest. It’s like every moment of the past sixteen years – every moment of wanting to tear and scrub and sear the Words off her skin, every moment of imagining how maybe she’s misinterpreting something and they might not be as horrible as they seem, every moment of wondering what she’s done or will do to deserve such _cruelty_ from the people who are supposed to _love_ her more than anyone else ever can or will – has come crashing down on her all at once, and for a second she genuinely thinks she’s about to pass out from the weight of it all.

Something chirps in front of her, and she realizes that she’s holding her radio up to her mouth, thumb turning white from how hard she pressing the button on the side of it. She can barely see through the rage, and all she wants to do is spill it out over the radio – to swear and curse and condemn John for the sick son of a bitch that he is, to throw his words back at him, to let him know _exactly_ how she’s going to kill him, how much she’s going to _enjoy_ it, and how no one will morn him because he’s just _that_ much of a _sick. Twisted. Fuck._ She wants to let everything she’s felt over the past sixteen years – every moment of hurt and fear and sorrow and anger – flood through her and over the airwaves. She wants to _hurt_ him, in any way that she can, make him feel _some_ degree of the agony he’s caused her.

But…

But just because _she_ didn’t recognize the Resonance at first doesn’t mean _he_ won’t.

And that’s not a chance she can take.

Robin forces her thumb off the button. Lets her hand fall back down to her side. Squeezes her eyes shut against the tears and grits her teeth against the surge of nausea and helplessness and _hate_ when her radio clicks back on, when she hears his sick, condescending _laughter_ roll over her. _“Oh Deputy…”_ he purrs at her, sickly sweet, _“is something wrong?”_ There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again, voice low and cruel. _“You think you’re so brave, don’t you? The Rook of the Resistance. The Angel of Death,”_ he sneers out the titles that others have given her in their hope and trust, voice _dripping_ with disgusted mockery. _“So strong. So courageous. So long as no one’s **looking** at you. But shine a light in your direction, bring you out of the shadows and leave no place for you to cower, and your true nature is revealed. Just a scared, sad, **pathetic** little girl who’s pretending to be a hero. I’m going to **tear** all that away, Deputy. I’m going to rip away all the artifice, and leave nothing behind but the raw, naked truth. And when you’re exposed, when everyone can see what you really are, when you can’t lie to anyone anymore… you’ll **beg** me to save you from yourself. And maybe… if you’re a **very** good girl… I’ll be merciful.”_

Her fingers tighten around the radio, knuckles turning white as her hand – her entire body – shakes violently, the little brick in her hands creaking as she tries to squeeze it to death and –

“Boss.” There’s a hand on her shoulder, warm and steady as it grips her firmly, comfortingly. She manages to get a breath in, like that hand’s pushing oxygen through to her lungs, and turns her head jerkily to meet Sharky’s eyes.

Sharky looks _psychotically_ pissed.

He’s also grinning at her like his namesake, eyes bright with hellfire, and holding something out towards her.

Robin looks down at the object in his hand.

Then she looks back up at him, grinning like a shark and eyes burning with hellfire.

Feeling lightheaded with malicious glee and righteous fury, Robin thumbs her radio back on, waits for a count of three, and blares the air horn directly into the receiver.

##############

Somewhere between starting back down into the valley and running into a _blindingly_ angry Grace and semi-hysterical Nick, it starts sinking in just how _close_ she’d come to losing everything.

The rage’s burned off by this point, and she really wishes it hadn’t because she’s _always_ handled anger better than fear.

And suddenly she’s really scared.

Bliss is a much, _much_ bigger problem then they’d thought it was, for one thing. John’s got an increasingly personal desire to get at _her_ specifically. And Joseph… part of her really wishes she could remember what all he’d said to her at the river, because something tells her that he’s got plans involving her, and that’s probably the kind of thing she should be aware of.

Another part of her wants to drop everything, go back to Eden’s Gate, and fall down at Joseph’s feet.

 _That_ part she chalks up to lingering Bliss and the trauma, and deals with it like a rational and well-balanced adult – by chucking hanks of meat at a Peggy patrol and sitting back and watching as they get eaten by a bear.

But even watching Peggies meet their grizzly end – and, ok, maybe God _doesn’t_ hate her if one of those monsters made its way so far out of its usual territory, seemingly just to slay her enemies and allow her to make that pun – can’t distract her from reality for long.

She nearly _spoke_ to Joseph and John. Repeatedly. _Wanted_ to do it. And, sure, it was the Bliss making it all happen… but there’s a _lot_ of that shit wafting around Hope County. And next time she runs into it, she might not be lucky enough to have early-onset hypothermia and a case of the drowning to keep her mouth shut. And _seriously_ , someone really ought to let John know what an actual baptism entails, because Robin’s pretty sure near death experiences aren’t supposed to be involved. Maybe Pastor Jerome can give him some tips. And then introduce him to Ezekiel 25:17. Except Pastor Jerome probably isn’t the sort to misquote the Bible, so he’d probably only ever use the _real_ Ezekiel 25:17, which wouldn’t be _quite_ as applicable or satisfying…

The point being… she had lucked right the hell out.

Her mind is still running circles around all this when, about halfway down the mountain, she gets a few new calls.

The first is Dutch, sounding incredibly proud and amused. The second is Pastor Jerome, Mary May’s voice chiming in from the background, a whole world of profound _concern_ resting behind the very casual reminder that he had something he could use her help with and would she like to stop by Fall’s End sometime soon?

Which is probably fair given the way the past twenty or so hours have gone.

It also raises a thought she’s been trying really hard not to think about.

Of course, once it’s brought to her front brain she can’t shove it back into her subconscious. Which is why, sometime later, sandwiched between Hurk and Sharky in the backseat of a truck, shuffling guiltily under the weight of Grace’s “I _am_ mad _and_ I’m disappointed” and Nick’s “We still love you but we _are_ talking about this when we get home” auras, Robin finally breaks the oppressive silence.

“I think I need to tell the others. The… the leaders and stuff, in the different regions. About…” she trails off, waving her right hand in a vague circle from her other wrist to her chest to her neck, “you know. Just in case.”

She counts the seconds of silence, waiting for someone to say she’s overreacting and that it’s not necessary.

_One, two, three, four, five, si-_

“That’s…” Grace’s voice is strained, and Robin catches the furrowed brow and wince in the rearview mirror, “probably not a bad idea.”

Nick hums softly in reluctant agreement, and Hurk’s knee nudges hers while Sharky squeezes her wrist lightly in a show of comfort and solidarity.

Well.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Threats of violence/torture/brainwashing, vague sexual undertones, and intense condescension. Or, as I call it, John Seed.  
>  _(Is John his own warning yet, I feel like he should be his own warning by now)_
> 
> _In which Robin handles trauma and heartbreak the only way she knows how - with Rage and Wholesale Violence. Featuring Sharky and Hurk as terrified enablers, Grace and Nick as the Parent!Friends(TM), and John Seed as That Bitch that Keeps Making Everything Worse. Fun for the whole family! (No. Seriously. Do not let your family read this. Do not let **my** family read this. This is already not family-friendly and its going to get **so much worse.** )_
> 
> _Anyway! Hope y'all enjoyed this, and see you on Friday!_
> 
>  
> 
> _Title comes from "Dogs of War" by Blues Saraceno. Because **suck it** John._


	5. I Get By

Telling Mary May and Pastor Jerome first is a given, and not just because she’s already headed for Fall’s End. For one thing, after everything that’s just gone down she feels like she owes them a bit of an explanation, and – aside from Sheriff Whitehorse – they’re the ones she knows best, feels the closest to. And, if she’s going to be honest with herself, out of everyone she now has to tell, thinking about telling _them_ scares her least.

So, as soon as they pull into the town, Robin steels herself and walks into the Spread Eagle.

There’s only a couple of people inside when they arrive, all of whom strike up a round of cheers and applause the moment she walks through the door. She smiles back as best she can, does her best to stomach the hands clapping her on the shoulders and back and arms as she makes her way over to the bar and locks eyes with Mary May.

The older woman’s smile doesn’t falter, but Robin sees her eyes turn to steel before she turns to her few patrons/minions and – good natured and easy going as ever – bellows at them to get the fuck out so she can get some real business handled.

By the time the last of them are staggering out – Casey’s got one guy half-slung over his shoulder, and is promising Mary May he’ll get the kid home safely – Nick reappears with Pastor Jerome – the priest looking simultaneously relieved and concerned (and that’s a very interesting, very _specific_ look that Robin suspects is taught only to the _best_ of religious figures – it’s a look she used to get from Reverend Hewitt, back in Baker’s Ford, a _lot_ ).

Mary May’s got two shot glasses on the counter, and is reaching for a bottle of water – Jerome Jeffries only partakes in alcohol under very special or very horrible situations – as the Pastor approaches them. At which point, breathing steadily through her nose, reminding herself that Grace and Nick and Sharky and Hurk are sitting nearby, that Adelaide and Jess are just a call away, that her team – her _family_ – will have her back no matter what, Robin reaches across the bar and puts a third shot glass on the counter. 

The other two freeze for a moment. 

Then, slowly, Mary May puts the water back, grabs a better quality bottle of whiskey, and tops off their glasses.

They down their first shots with the synchronicity and professionalism of miserable bastards trapped in a world of guerrilla warfare, and when the whiskey settles in her stomach like fire Robin takes a hold of it, takes the kind of deep breath she does before charging into battle, and she…

She tells them.

She tells them everything.

She tells them about her heart breaking when she was six years old, and about how’s she’s spent the sixteen years since then living in fearful anticipation, going through each day like someone locked into a bomb vest. She tells them about walking into Eden’s Gate, into Joseph’s church, and realizing every nightmare she’s ever had wasn’t bad enough. She tells them about coming to in the river, about John, and about her own moments of Bliss-fuelled insanity. Somewhere during it all she unravels the cloth on her left wrist and tugs down the color of her shirt, exposing the liquid black Words for their confirmation and judgment.

Mary May and Pastor Jerome remain silent the entire time, and she can’t quite bring herself to look up from her empty shot glass – she’s not even entirely sure what it is that she’s afraid to see in them. They’re still silent for a bit after she finishes, unmoving, and she still can’t bring herself to look up.

Then, finally, Mary May moves – grabbing a heavy bottle off the top shelf and filling their glasses nearly to overflowing. And whatever exactly she’s given them is probably meant to be savored, but they all knock it back like it’s the usual after-battle rotgut.

Then, shaking a little, Mary May rounds the bar, puts one hand on Robin’s shoulder, and nudges her chin up so she’ll meet her eyes.

“You are a hell of a woman, Deputy Baird. And I wish it were under better circumstances, but I’m glad I know you.” Mary May’s eyes are gentle and heartsick as she lightly chucks Robin on the chin. “I’m glad you’re my friend.” Gentle hands squeeze lightly on her shoulders, “Now,” the bartender sighs heavily, shakily, “all of this is utter _shit_ , and I’m going to go _break_ something. But I _need_ you to know that it’s not _at_ you. Ok?” She holds Robin’s gaze intently, until the faintly trembling deputy nods, at which point she nods back with a shaky smile. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Robin nods again, mechanically, eyes and throat burning in a way that has nothing to do with the whiskey, and – with a parting glance at the pastor – Mary May makes her way out the backdoor.

They sit in silence for a minute after she leaves, Robin turning the empty shot glass over and over in her hands.

“We were friends, you know,” Pastor Jerome’s voice, when it finally comes, is impossibly soft, almost vulnerable. “When they first came to Hope County.” He heaves a sigh, turning towards her. “Joseph. We…” Robin watches the emotions play over his face as he tries to marshal his thoughts, a medley of sorrow and regret and lingering pain. Betrayal. “I liked him,” he says at last, the admission making his voice raw. “I thought he was a good man. A… a damaged man; badly hurt, somewhat misguided, at times _too_ passionate, but…” he trails off, shaking his head, and she can _feel_ the guilt bleeding off him. “I wonder sometimes; if that was _why_ it took me so long to realize… I don’t think it was a lie. I don’t think I imagined the good – I just misjudged the bad. Underestimated _how bad_ the damage was, how deeply the scars and wounds ran.” He sighs again, turning fully towards her and resting a warm, gentle hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know all of the details, what all happened to hurt Joseph Seed so badly, to turn him into… this.” His eyes are impossibly, painfully kind, drowning her in compassion and support, “But he was a _good_ man, once. Maybe in a better world he… he still would be.” His hand squeezes her shoulder, the warmth sinking down into her skin. “Maybe he’d still be a man _worthy_ of such a precious gift.”

Robin shudders, squeezing her eyes shut against a surge of wet heat. “I…” She swallows roughly, then makes her eyes open and turn to the pastor, makes herself smile. “Thank you.”

She tells herself he’s trying to help. Trying to be kind.

She doesn’t tell him that the _last_ thing she wants in life is to think about how any of the Seeds might’ve been decent people once – been _human_. That maybe, in some kinder world, her soulmates could have brought her anything other than pain and misery. 

She doesn’t want to think about what she’ll never get to have.

And then, suddenly, mercifully, Mary May’s back – knuckles bloody and wrapped up and smelling faintly of gunpowder.

Smiling in the same pointed, defiant manner that she had when they’d taken back Fall’s End, the older woman fills up their glasses again, adding four new ones and barking for the others to stop skulking in the background and join them.

Then, as the others gather around them, Mary May holds her glass up to Robin, locking eyes with her steadily.

“Fuck ‘em.”

Robin holds her gaze for a moment. Then, lips twitching upward, she clinks her glass against Mary May’s and knocks it back.

“Amen.”

##############

For no real reason – or, at least, no reason she can accurately explain, even to herself – Robin plans to tell Whitehorse last.

Of course, what Robin _plans_ frequently gets beaten up on the playground and has its lunch money stolen by the malevolent hands of fate. So, a few days after her heart to heart to heart in the Spread Eagle, a fairly desperate call comes in from Henbane and Robin finds herself crossing the river again.

If nothing else, though, going back to Henbane is almost like going on vacation. A really, really shitty vacation in the middle of mind-rape-and-zombie country, true, but at least no one’s constantly flaying her alive over the radio.

Of course, _again_ , it turns out what she’s been called back for was a damn drugged up _Judge cougar_ , which is _all_ kinds of horrifying.

At least it’s not another fucking drug-moose.

She’s _still_ having nightmares about that thing.

And kind of thinks it might be haunting her.

Seriously though. Fuck. The. Bliss.

But, psychological trauma and drug trips aside, she _does_ manage to put Peaches’ tweaked-up cousin down and, since she’s in the neighborhood and all, she sticks around to borrow a cup of fire and murder from the local Peggies.

Robin is nothing if not a productive woman when she’s trying to avoid something.

Eventually though, she runs out of readily apparent reasons to postpone her next reveal. So, the last of Faith’s drug-boats burning away on the river behind her, Robin collects her gear and her bear and her Sharky and goes directly to jail.

Well, she _tries_ to, anyway.

##############

 _Fuck the Bliss!_ So hard! And Faith! In fact, fucking Faith and the fucking Bliss can fucking fuck off together and fucking die! 

Fuck!

Robin doesn’t like getting drugged up on Bliss. Robin doesn’t like getting abducted. Robin doesn’t like getting bad touched and crazied at by cult leaders. And Robin _really_ doesn’t like getting bad touched and crazied at by cult leaders who’ve abducted her while she’s drugged up on _motherfucking Bliss!_

Robin also doesn’t like returning to consciousness in the middle of a corpse circle, but that’s a minor issue at the moment.

A more pressing issue is her vital need to express her displeasure with fire, death, and destruction.

And she’s got a pretty good idea of how to do that.

##############

A lot of people in the Resistance talk about life after they clear out the Peggies – the things they’ll do and the things they’ll have a hard time readjusting to.

Robin’s growing increasingly certain that the thing she’s going to have the most trouble with will be _not_ being able to solve her problems with high-powered explosives.

Because, she thinks – dodging a falling chuck of Joseph-statue while blasting away a cluster of Peggies with a faintly unhinged laugh that would _probably_ make anyone who heard it a touch concerned for her mental state – she _really_ likes blowing things up.

It’s just so much _easier_ than actually thinking about or dealing with her problems. 

The last bit of statue is crumbling to the ground – even _more_ cathartic than the Yes sign had been (and seriously, but _**seriously,**_ who in the actual fuck has a giant ass statue of himself built? And who then comes along, looks at that statue, and says, “Yep, I’m gunna devote my life to _this_ schmuck, I foresee _no_ problems whatsoever arising from this decision! And why fuck _yes_ I’d love to indiscriminately murder my neighbors and then drink some Kool-Aid, pass the assault rifle and fill the cup up filthy-bearded-cult-man!” ~~And "this schmuck" with the cult and the idiots and the stupid fucking statue is _her **soulmate**_ , because of _course_ he is, fuck Robin and her whole life, apparently~~) – when Robin’s radio clicks on. “Hey Rook… if you’re looking to cause more trouble, I’ve got an idea.”

The Deputy listens to the idea, smile growing wider and wider as visions of burning pages and horrified cultists dance through her head. And really, while their mutual first impressions may have been less than stellar, Robin’s really come to like Tracey. She always gives out the _best_ missions.

##############

Addie picks her up near Dead Man’s Mill about an hour later, bruised and scorched and still shaking, grinning like a twitchy and particularly feral Cheshire cat. She gets a hug, a bar of chocolate, and a ride back to Jail that’s filled with small talk, dirty jokes, and more reasons why she shouldn’t tie down and hide the awe-inspiring gift that is her “prize-winning bosom.” She eats the chocolate and keeps one finger within the pilot’s field of view for the entire flight.

Robin doesn’t bother waiting for the helicopter to land when they reach their destination, simply grappling over the side and bailing onto the wall with a wave of thanks and a quick “get off my tits, cougar,” amidst a wave of laughter.

So a routine interaction with Adelaide.

Damn but she loves the crazy old broad. 

She makes her way through the jail and back to the cellblock quickly, exchanging waves and nods and good natured insults mechanically. And once there she finds Earl Whitehorse, exactly where she expects him to be – in the middle of everything, running about eight jobs at once while schlepping a box of supplies to some new arrival’s new “room,” mediating something or other between Virgil and Tracey, and talking someone through how best to field strip a semi-automatic while camping in a tree over the radio.

Her sheriff is kind of a badass.

“Hey Boss,” he’s hooking the radio back to his belt when she speaks up, turning to her with a very tired, very _proud_ grin. She grins back in the same manner, then smiles and waves a little at Virgil and Tracey before turning back to the sheriff. “You got a minute?”

His brow twitches slightly, eyes giving her a post-fight once over. Then he nods, hands the box off to Tracey, and – after a quick, quiet exchange with Virgil – leads her out to the former-ish mayor’s office, locking the doors as she slumps into a chair.

There’s a light -creak- and a weary sigh as he settles himself on the edge of the desk, voice scratchy and tied as an old gravel road. “How you been Rook?”

She blinks up at him, then returns the awkward smile. “I have been better.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Whitehorse’s smile turns more brittle for a second before fading back away, his eyes scanning over her again compulsively, the way he always has after a particularly rough call. “I heard about what happened in Holland Valley the other day. This… about that?”

And here it goes.

Robin nods jerkily, swallowing and forcing herself to stay calm. “Yeah. Somewhat.” Her mouth tastes sour and she swallows roughly again, “Boss there’s…” Something knocks against her leg suddenly, and she’s nearly out of her chair before she realizes it’s her own trembling hand. Breathing deeply, as steadily as she can, she brings her hands together and clasps them until her knuckles are white. Then she makes herself look back up at the sheriff, nails biting into the backs of her hands when she sees the deep, intense concern in his face. “There’s something I probably should’ve told you a while ago.” It takes a few tries before she can force out, “About my soulmates.”

Whitehorse goes deathly still for a moment, eyes twitching ever so slightly wider, but his voice – when he speaks a few seconds later – is calm, controlled, promising his support and guidance in whatever’s ahead, just the way he’d spoken to Robin and Staci and Joey before they’d gotten on the helicopter with Burke. “You found them.”

She lets the sheriff’s quiet strength wash over her, nodding to confirm the not-a-question. “Yeah.”

“Peggies?”

“Yeah.” She chokes out the word, then shudders out a hysterical little laugh, gritting her teeth and shaking her head against the burning behind her eyes. “A bit, yeah.”

Whitehorse sighs, running one worn hand over his face as he rests himself back on the desk. “Rook,” he sounds so damn _steady_ , like he’s just going to work out some kind of community service deal or something, like he’s going to _fix_ things, make it better, and she knows it’s something he’d do for anyone but that he’s going to do it _especially_ for _her_ , because that’s the kind of man that Earl Whitehorse is, and if he doesn’t stop being so damn supportive Robin’s pretty sure she’s going to throw up. “We can try to organize something, to get them ou–”

“They’re the Seeds.” The words – bizarrely – aren’t rushed. They don’t come tumbling out of her mouth, don’t crowd together, don’t _sound_ like she’s throwing them into the air to stop Whitehorse’s calm kindness, like she _has_ to say them _now_ or she never will. Really it’s probably the calmest she’s ever sounded while admitting this, and maybe it’s that the setting is tricking her mind, making her think that she’s just giving the sheriff a rundown of some commonplace scuffle. “The brothers. All three of them.” Earl Whitehorse is staring blankly at her, and she’s meeting his eyes calmly and talking like she’s giving him the details of some bar brawl she’s busted up, rather than admitting that God or the universe or whatever has decided that she belongs with the psychopaths who have been burning the world down around them. “None of them know but…” here, finally, her voice starts to catch, her hands starting to tremble again in her lap, “two of theirs have Resolved on me so…”

“Eden’s Gate.” The sheriff’s voice is soft, quiet, but it cuts her off instantly. Whitehorse is staring towards her, but she can tell he’s looking somewhere else entirely, eyes flickering minutely as memories play before them. “Joseph, he…” And then his gaze is back on her, eyes wide with horror and realization and face twisted like _he’s_ the one who’s going to be sick now, “ _Rook_ …” His mouth works silently. Then he _flings_ himself to his feet, a low, raw snarl of rage and pain escaping him, “I should have _never_ taken you with us to that –”

She jumps to her feet, reaching out towards him because no, _no_ , she is _not_ going to let him start blaming _himself_ for this particular circle of hell. “Boss, I _volunteered_.”

“You were too new!” He wheels on her, and he’s pointing a finger at _her_ but all the emotion in his eyes – helpless anger, guilt, shame – is directed at _himself_ (and it’s been a while since Earl’s reminded her so much of her grandfather, but for a second Robin’s eight years old again, watching as Pawpaw rages and swears and curses himself after his encouragement to test her limits nearly got her drowned in Tuttle’s Lake). “Didn’t have _near_ the experience needed for a situation like that, not to mention…” He trails off, whatever he was going to say – and she’s got a pretty good idea, and it’s something that she was trying not to think about even _before_ the Words hit her – making all the pain and self-loathing in his eyes build up and up and up. “ _Damn it_. I _never_ should have listened to Burke.” He slams his palms down on the desk abruptly, making her jump. “Whole _fucking_ op was a mistake from the start.”

Robin shudders a little sigh, tries to work up some moisture in her mouth. Tries not to remember how many times she’d said those exact words to herself since they’d gotten on the damn helicopter in the first place. “We had a job, Boss.” _That’s_ the bit they have to remember, or she’s pretty sure someone’s going to end up blowing their brains out from that alone. “And it needed doing. Anyway,” she sighs again, digging her fingers across her scalp as reality nudges a reminder at her, “it’s not like it would’ve mattered in the long run.” Whitehorse isn’t looking her way, but she can feel his attention on her, and she slumps over next to him, head lolling backwards and eyes skittering along the cracks in the ceiling. “Sooner or later _something_ would’ve kicked the hornets’ nest and all this’d be happening anyway, or someone would’ve caught sight of my ‘marks and recognized the handwriting and…” She swallows thickly, the words falling out of her own mouth an inescapable reminder that fate had, apparently, decided to royally fuck her over no matter what sinking in like a knife to the guts. “The only thing you could’ve done to stop this would’ve been to not hire me in the first place, and there’s no _way_ you could’ve known. And please,” she shakes her head, actually daring to wave a hand to cut him off when he starts in again, “don’t… don’t tell me that you shouldn’t have done _that_ ; ‘cause…” her lips twitch upwards, sharp and jittery, and she huffs a painfully transparent laugh. “I mean, I know it’s a sin and all but I’ve got my pride. And I’m not quite ready to cut it out yet.”

She feels the gaze boring into the side of her face. Finally, she turns her eyes back to him, and the sheriff is giving her the flattest look ever. 

“That is not funny.” 

They hold each other’s eyes for a moment. Then the gallows humor that seems to come with a badge – or a military uniform, or a guerilla war, apparently – rears its head and they’re both grinning for real. After a moment Whitehorse straightens back up, leans against the desk at her side, shoving all the shit back down where it can sit and fester until the job’s done like a good cop. “Who else…?”

Robin follows his lead, rolling her shoulders a little and swallowing down another surge of hysteria. “My people. Mary May and Pastor Jerome. Now you.” She shrugs lightly. “Pretty sure that’s it, anyway.” She doesn’t add what she thinks would happen if anyone else – anyone with _Eden’s Gate_ – knew, largely because she has very pointedly been not thinking about that _at all_.

Whitehorse nods back, “Right.” A muscle twitches in his jaw, probably as his own mind strays towards and skitters away from the same Bad Place that hers has been. “Shit.” 

And that about sums it all up.

They stay there for a minute – leaning silently against the battered desk in the former-ish mayor’s appropriated office, in the middle of a jail that’s become a sanctuary, in the middle of zombie country brought about by a cult uprising.

Then there’s a loud crash and clamor and someone starts bellowing from down the hall.

Whitehorse barks out a laugh, Robin joining in a half a beat late, and shakes his head. “Well,” he pushes himself upright, rolling his shoulder and jerking his head towards the door, “we’ve got jobs to do.” Robin’s got her feet back under her, is headed for the door, when his hand comes to rest gently on her shoulder. She turns to him, blinking in confusion. Then the bastard _hugs_ her. Which is not even remotely fair because she’d just gotten it back _together_ , damn it. Then, of course, he just has to make it worse, rubbing one worn hand comfortingly up and down her back as he mumbles, “Hey… if anyone can handle this,” the side of his head knocks lightly against hers, "I’m pretty sure it’s _you_ , Rook.”

Trembling lightly, she blatantly lies to herself that it’s leftover Bliss and exhaustion that makes tears pop to her eyes, and that she’s only melting into the hug and wrapping her arms around the sheriff to be polite and try and keep things from getting super awkward.

“Thanks Boss.”

##############

She ends up staying the night, helps the Cougars out with a few dozen little tasks and chores around the jail, throws a few tips and tricks to a group of recent rescues, diligently keeps her mouth shut while Sharky and Addie recount a few of her – only slightly exaggerated – exploits, and wards off Whitehorse repeated offers for her to stay in the comparative safety of Henbane. 

“I’m just saying,” he leans closer to her, so she can actually hear his low tone over the raucous speculation of how long it took for John to get his hearing back after the air horn incident (and, ok, she’d still rather forget that the psychotic bastard exists, but hearing one of Mary May’s little birds describe how he’d been going around shouting at the top of his lungs following their little “chat” had _really_ made her day). “We’d be more than happy to have you full time. There’s a _lot_ that needs doing here – a lot of good you could do.”

“And I intend to do it, Boss.” She takes a swig of what the locals call Jailhouse Gin and meets his gaze with a resigned sigh, “Just like I intend to do in Holland Valley and the Whitetails.” She waves her personal Henbane mug – other reasons she loves Tracey, the beautiful bitch actually found and reserved a “Zero Fox Given” mug for her, and has personally kept it safe – at him dismissively when he tries to start in on her again, “I’m not hiding away when there’s people who need my help. If I can do something I’m going to _do_ it, no matter where it is. Besides,” she shrugs wearily, “it’s not like Faith _wouldn’t_ pass the information along if she ever noticed anything during one of her little bad-touch drug-trips.”

Whitehorse makes a sound that’s half a groan of disgust and half a bark of laughter and nearly snorts terrible moonshine out his nose. That brings a neat end to their conversation.

The next morning Robin’s up before anyone else, swearing under her breath in the dark morning hours as her radio clicks to life and Jess’ voice comes hissing at her. A few minutes later she’s kicked Sharky awake, shot off a call to ask Addie to keep an eye on Cheeseburger for her, grabbed an ATV from in front of the jail, and is headed off to the Whitetails, a folded note left for Earl letting him know that she trusts him to decide whether to tell Tracey and Virgil or not.

The sun’s barely even up when they cross out of Henbane, leaving the ATV behind and making their way to the F.A.N.G. Center – and, more importantly, to Jess – on foot, pausing long enough to restock a little before heading off to the Park Ranger Station. There’s a violent argument masquerading as a brief discussion about how to proceed, that ultimately ends with an excessively sulky Sharky agreeing to wait nearby as backup, in case Robin and Jess get spotted and things go to hell.

For once, things _don’t_ go to hell, so Robin and Jess pat each other on the back and consign themselves to Sharky bitching all the way back to Wolf’s Den.

They make pretty good time, actually; not that Robin _wants_ to do what she’s going to do by any means, but having told Mary May and Pastor Jerome and Whitehorse seems to have been like ripping off a few Band-Aids, and now all her skin is _itching_ to get rid of the last ones. 

Also, they’re in the Whitetail Mountains, which is pretty much the _last_ place in Hope County where you want to drag your feet.

Ducking down into the Wolf’s Den is weirdly comforting – the place feeling safe, for all its gloom, and the people much less overt in their hero worship. She gets a few respectful nods from various militia members, a big grin and wave from Wheaty, and Tammy – leaning against the kid’s set up – _actually_ seems to be something like grateful and impressed over the most recent outpost takeover.

Robin makes a perfunctory response to the various greetings, but her attention is all on Eli, who doesn’t even need her to open her mouth, just takes one look in her eyes and is nodding at her to follow him down to a small, out of the way room. Once inside Robin leans herself against a wall, staring down Jess and Sharky until they detach themselves from her side and slump down a on a couch a ways away from her. Then she shrugs lightly when Eli nods questioningly towards his followers, and tries to swallow down the sickly twist in her stomach when Tammy and Wheaty set themselves down opposite her people.

The little room is completely silent for about a minute, Eli waiting patiently for her to speak, both pairs of hangers-on shuffling in confusion and/or nervous anticipation.

Then, taking a deep breath, Robin tells them.

She’s barely got the core of the matter out when Tammy leaps to her feet and storms out of the room, door slamming violently behind her. 

It’s, quite frankly, a lot better than Robin’d thought she’d take it.

For one thing Tammy didn’t _shoot_ her.

Thus far.

She gets through the rest of her spiel without further interruptions, Eli listening calmly, quietly, while Wheaty’s eyes get bigger and bigger and his jaw falls further and further towards the ground. Every once in a while the kid will make like he’s going to jump in, only for Eli to silently shake his head and shut him up.

“Well,” the militia leader finally drawls when she’s finished. “That is… less than ideal.”

Robin doesn’t quite laugh, but her lips definitely twist upwards in a pained, exhausted smile. “Somewhat. And, in other news, water continues to be wet.”

“Could we… use this?” Wheaty’s voice quivers a little, tentative as he cuts off whatever Eli was about to say. Jess and Sharky look confused, Eli looks quietly alarmed, and Robin… well Robin’s just weirdly relieved that _someone’s_ finally broaching this idea. “Against the Seeds, I mean. If we’ve got their soulmate then couldn’t we shut them down or something by threatening –” The kid nearly slams into the wall jumping back from Jess, visions of the utter _wreck_ she made of his fellow Whitetail probably running through his head as Robin grabs and wrestles back the snarling huntress. “I’m not saying we will! Or would, or… _shit_ , we’d _never_ actually do anything! Not to anyone and _especially_ not to you, Dep! But, I mean,” He’s looking around the room a little desperately, wilting a little under the baleful stares and snarled profanities coming from Jess and Sharky and the look of resigned disapproval on Eli’s face, “the Seeds wouldn’t know that, so…”

Robin waves the room as a whole down, pushing Jess back towards the lumpy couch and glaring at Sharky until he sits down next to her. She shares a brief look with the militia leader, noting a touch of embarrassment and… and a hint of _relief_ for whatever he’s seeing in _her_ eyes, before turning back to the kid, keeping her expression as calm and sympathetic as she can make it. “Not that I don’t understand where you’re coming from – because, _believe me_ , I do,” she’ll probably never admit how many times that _exact_ plan has crossed her mind, largely because pretty much anyone she’d admit it to would probably respond by locking her away in somebody’s bunker for her own good, “but that is… just a fucking horrible idea.” She falls back a little, resting against the arm of the couch, suddenly feeling _tired_. “Aside from the fact that, for that to happen, either they’d have to have found out on their own or we’d have to _tell_ them in the first place, neither of which I’m ok with…” the kid winces, and there’s a mumbled cluster of profane agreement from behind her as she tries to find the words to phrase her thoughts without crushing the well-meaning but incredibly naïve boy. “You don’t try and leverage someone’s soulmate against them; _especially_ not someone crazy, not _ever_. That’s like… Criminology 101.” She shrugs a little at his not entirely convinced look, “Literally. If that one fact hadn’t already been drilled into me by the time I graduated, it would’ve been hammered in by everyone and every policy by the end of my first month on the force.” Seriously, there were _pamphlets_ on the subject, published and updated on a regular basis and slapped onto every flat surface available because there was always some pants-backwards moron who’d still try it. “It’s one of _the most_ important rules of law enforcement.”

Eli’s crossed the room, putting a steadying hand on Wheaty’s shoulder, “Threatening someone’s soulmate is about the worst mistake you can make.” There’s a tightness in his eyes, a clench in his jaw that speaks to experience. “You can never overestimate how badly they’ll react.”

“Seriously?” The spike in the kid’s voice is just slightly more horror than disbelief. “After everything… how much worse could they do?!”

“They could always forget their whole ‘save the sinners’ bullshit.” Nearly everyone jumps, jerking their heads towards the door, where Tammy’s suddenly reappeared, glowering like a thunderstorm and carrying a bottle and a stack of cups. “Start murdering every prisoner they’ve got and broadcasting it over the air, then dropping their corpses down on us from the sky until we cave. Stop bothering with any kind of restraint and just start burning the whole damn county to ash until they find her.” She _slams_ the bottle down on a little table, and if Eli _seemed_ to have some experience with this subject then Tammy _definitely_ has it. “People don’t remember their goals or values, don’t think _rationally_ when you’re holding a gun to part of their soul.”

Robin flinches, not entirely from the look that the older woman shoots her way.

There’s a few awkward seconds – Wheaty shuffling uncomfortably next to a waiting Eli, Jess’ teeth grinding audibly and Sharky twitching in a way that usually promises fire, and Robin and Tammy locked in a silent, indescribable staring contest. Then, finally, the older woman breaks her gaze away, setting out the cups and pouring some kind of – presumably alcoholic – liquid into them, “If you’re all waiting for an invitation…”

Later on, if they all survive, anyone trying to come up with a retroactive motto for the Hope County resistance as a whole will seriously have to consider something along the lines of “alcohol – solves problems, stops arguments, starts fires, and brings people together!” Or possibly just “Hurray! Booze!”

Robin, Jess, and Sharky have their drinks in hand – and, seriously, whatever they’re about to consume smells _less_ drinkable than Jailhouse Gin, if that’s even possibly – and Eli’s picking his up off the table when Tammy’s hand shoots out and grabs Wheaty by the shoulder. They all go quietly still, the kid especially, and Tammy… Tammy just _stares_ the kid down, face blank and eyes… “You don’t ever talk about doing something like that again, you understand?” Her voice is almost perfectly even, but there’s just a _hint_ of a tremor in it, and that seems to be what’s going to push the kid over the edge, tears of shame filling up his eyes as his gaze flickers between Tammy and Robin. “Not even if it involves people like the Seeds. You are _better_ than that.” Her hand squeezes his shoulder once, “You are better than _them_.”

Robin’s gaze falls to the floor, stomach twisting as her fingers clench tightly around the tin cup. She can hear the kid mumble something, then there’s a scrape as the last two cups are picked up.

A large, heavy hand grips her shoulder lightly, and she makes herself look up into Eli’s face. The militia leader’s eyes are full of tired sympathy, the same as she’s seen directed at anyone else the Seeds have hurt. It’s surprisingly easy to tolerate, _comforting_ , even, and it’s weirdly easy to smile a little and nod at him in thanks.

Wheaty’s next, still red eyed and looking a little like he wants to dig a hole in the ground and crawl in. He opens his mouth, the incoming apology obvious, and Robin cuts him off with a shake of her head. Then, drawing from Eli and Jess and Sharky’s proximity, she smiles at the kid and punches him lightly in the shoulder until he smiles back in relief.

At last, she turns to Tammy. The two are silent for another few moments of staring. Then the older woman raises her glass towards her. Robin blinks at her for a moment, then raises her own and the two clink together, which seems to be the unspoken signal for everyone to start drinking.

They don’t bother saying anything else.

##############

The night drags on for a bit, everyone peeling off one by one – Wheaty first, still raw and shaky after everything; then Sharky, barely able to keep his eyes open but still giving Tammy a sharp side-eye; Tammy herself next, giving Robin a final nod before heading off to, presumably, spend some quality time with her pool-pal; and then eventually Jess, lingering at Robin’s side until Eli’s meaningful looks finally get to her, and she gives the deputy a quick squeeze on the shoulder and slumps out with a final warning glance to the militia leader. 

_And then there were two…_

Eli takes a deep breath, puts the remaining booze _away_ – weirdo – and sits down across from her, forearms resting casually on his knees as he holds her gaze evenly.

Anticipation prickles over her skin like ozone before rain, and she’s kind of got an idea of what’s about to happen, so Robin takes the initiative and jumps in before he can get going. “So, is this where I get voted off the island?”

He jolts, eyes going wide as he immediately starts to protest. Then he actually _looks_ at her again and, as quick as it came, the shock dies down into annoyance. “Baird.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she drawls, not bothering to try and sound sorry at all, “I’ll behave.”

And wow, Eli gives flat looks that rival Grace’s. That’s honestly impressive. Finally he sighs, running a hand through his mountain man hair in what’s probably an attempt to deal with her… her-ness. “Look, kid, I get that you’re allergic to most human emotions and any displays of weakness. Believe me,” he scoffs a little laugh, shaking his head, “I am intimately familiar such things. But,” his smile dies away, face going serious again, “I need you to promise me that you’re not going to do anything stupid.” He holds up a hand before her face has even finished looking incredulous, staring down the smart-ass reply that’s rising in her. “I’m serious. Tammy was right – we’re not the Peggies, our people are _not_ expendable. And I need to know,” and _damn_ can Eli Palmer pull off the intent stare of a genuinely concerned authority figure, “that you know that.”

Robin holds his gaze for as long as she can. Then, after about two seconds of that, her eyes drop down to look anywhere but at him. “I know, Eli. I’m…” She sighs roughly, running her fingers tensely through the hair at her temples, “I meant what I said to Wheaty. And… ok, _fine_ , I have thought about it a few times,” _every day,_ “but I _do_ know that it’s a _stupid_ plan. Seriously,” she makes herself look back at him, “I’m not _that_ reckless. I’m not just going to…”

Eli doesn’t seem bothered by her uncomfortable trail off, just nods in quiet relief and presses on to the next unpleasant issue like an asshole. “You got a plan for if they find out?”

“Well,” she barks a little laugh of her own, lips twitching wryly, “much as I’ve come to love my arrows, I kind of figured that my 1911 would be the best bet in that scenario.” She turns back to him all the way, and immediately regrets it when she gets a look at him. _Whoops. Damn you flippancy._ “That was a joke.” She makes to wave him down. Unfortunately, her mouth keeps talking. “Seriously, suicide is probably a last resort.” _Damn it girl, why?! He is **never** going to let you leave Wolf’s Den at this point!_ “That was a joke too, c’mon Eli for crying out I’m not going to try and kill myself unless I –” _**Stop** it mouth!_ Robin groans in frustration, burying her face in her hands and mumbling up at him through her fingers. “Did you wait to have this conversation with me when I’m halfway drunk so that all my defenses would be falling down and you could get inside my head?” Peaking through her fingers she’s at least _somewhat_ gratified to see that he looks a little embarrassed. “That’s creepy, Eli. Creepy and _wrong_.” Buoyed a little, she lifts her head and glares at him. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to not get women drunk so you can take advantage of them?”

All the embarrassment fades, and Eli’s back to flat looks. “Baird…”

She snorts inelegantly, “Hey, don’t take that tone _now_.” Leaning back against the lumpy couch, she crosses her arms at him, giving off her best unimpressed look. “ _I’m_ not the one pulling from the frat-boy’s playbook.”

Groaning, Eli reaches up to pinch at the bridge of his nose – a distinct ‘Robin why are you like this?’ gesture that she has been intimately familiar with since early childhood. It’s a gesture she likes. It feels like _winning_. 

Unfortunately, her sense of victory doesn’t last; Eli powers through the her-shaped headache like a champ, dropping his hand back down after a few seconds and turning his attention solemnly back to her. “I get why you’re doing this, and I am honestly sorry I keep harping on it.” He leans forward, giving her a look that she’d _swear_ he’s coordinated with Whitehorse, Pastor Jerome, and her dear departed Bubbe. “I _need_ to know that you’ve got some kind of plan. Because if you’ve been ignoring this too much, and it catches you out…”

Smile fading away alongside her too brief sense of victory, Robin feels herself start to curl into the couch a little, suddenly feeling really, really tired. “I’ve…” She sighs, “Yeah, I’ve thought about it. And I’ve got a plan.” She looks up at Eli’s calm and supportive face, and shrugs wearily. “I mean… I don’t know if it’s a _good_ plan, or even an ok one, honestly, but… yeah.” She lets the words hang in the air, waiting for him to respond. When he only looks a tad bit relieved and nods encouragingly, she sighs again and charges on. “Honestly? My plan’s a case of second-verse-same-as-the-first.” She shrugs again when he raises a prompting eyebrow at her, kind of starting to feel like she’s developing a twitch. “They’re already trying to get me captured, right? ‘Cause I deeply enjoy breaking their toys and all that, and they’d probably like me to stop it.” Eli’s lips twitch a little at that, a touch proud, and even though her plan is kind of dumb she starts feeling a little better for that. “And I figure that… if they figure things out then, well… they’ll keep doing the same thing that they’re doing now, only… _more_.” Robin runs a hand through her hair again, tugging at some of the strands that have fallen loose until her scalp burns a little. “So I figure I’ll just… keep doing the same thing that I’m doing now. Only,” she gives the militia leader a sharp, pained smile, “y’know. More.” She holds his gaze for a second longer, before the wince sends her eyes skittering around the room, “Yeah, I _said_ it wasn’t a good plan. But, y’know, barring just hiding away somewhere and _hoping_ that things get fixed before they find where I’m camping out, I don’t really see any alternative to ‘try to not get caught.’” Somewhere along the line she’s ended up on her feet, volume climbing up to just shy of shouting in her increasingly simmering rage at the whole fucking situation. And, of course, Eli’s too much of a bastard to bow up at her, instead just staying in his chair, looking calmly at her with quiet empathy and waiting out the storm. Robin wheels away from him, snarling and yanking at her hair again before turning back once more to glare and spit, “Do you?!”

Eli, still not being a decent person and letting her rile him, just looks at her for a beat, then shakes his head tiredly. “Not really.” Growling – not the least because she’s honestly been kind of hoping that he _would_ have a better idea –Robin flops back down to the couch in a way that certainly _isn’t_ petulant in the slightest and grinds her palms against her eyes. Seconds of silence pass between them, and when she finally calms down enough to look at him again Eli giving her a weirdly apologetic look. “Now tell me,” the words sound like he’s forcing them out, and suddenly Robin feels herself go still, a sense of dread settling over her as she realizes that he’s probably about to ask her – “what’s your plan for if they find out about you, and _don’t_ respond with attempted abductions?”

 _Well_.

_Shit._

And there it is. The Forbidden Topic, the Dark Side of soulmates that no one wants to think about or acknowledge. 

_Rejection_. 

The rare event when someone finds their soulmate, Resolves the bond, and decides that they don’t _want_ the other person. 

Robin’s thought about it. A lot. Thought about it since she first learned of it as a little girl – an urban legend passed around the campfire in hushed, horrified tones. Thought about it since she heard about it in a classroom and discovered it was something _real_. Thought about it as she grew up and came to understand a little more about just how horrible the world really was. Thought about it so much – every _fucking_ day – since The Reaping began, since she realized just what kind of monsters her soulmates really were.

And the thought terrifies her.

But not for the reasons that it should.

Because… 

She is fully aware that Rejection is her best case scenario if the Seeds figure out who she is and she can’t get away. She _knows_ that any alternative would _definitely_ count as a fate worse than death.

And yet…

She’s had nightmares about it. Since she learned just who’s Words were burned into her skin. Has had them more and more vividly in the last few days since the river and the Bliss. She’s seen John’s face warp in hate and disgust as he shoves her under the water and _holds_ her there. She’s seen Jacob rip her throat open with his teeth, snap her neck, put his hands around her throat and squeeze, throw her to those monstrous Judges of his and then sit back and _watch_ , staring as impassively at her as he would an ant. And she’s seen Joseph, looking down on her, judging her, finding her wanting, his _disappointment_ the last thing she sees before his thumbs pierce through her eyes and drive up into her brain. She’s seen them kill her a thousand different ways in her head, purging the poison from their bond, cutting out the cancer, culling the sinner, etcetera. And every damn time it happens she wakes up – shaking, gasping, tears burning behind her eyes as she tries not to throw up from the sheer _fear_ that rips her apart, except – 

Except it’s not the _dying_ part that scares her.

And, honestly, she’s not quite strong or brave enough to admit what she _is_ scared of. Not even to herself. And maybe he’s guessed all that but, honestly, Robin’s not quite strong or brave enough to admit it to Eli either.

So she doesn’t. So, instead of facing up to that festering little knot of self-destructive fear and hope, she forces a grin at the militia leader and chirps, “Well, in that case I guess I’ll just have to see how much of their world I can burn down to ash before they can get a lucky shot in, won’t I?”

Eli just stares at her, looking sad and tired and so empathetic that she’s pretty sure she’s going to be sick.

He doesn’t say anything though, in the end. Doesn’t call her on her obvious bullshit or anything. No, instead Eli just gets to his feet, walks over and claps her on the shoulder, and nods. “Well then.” Their eyes lock and, despite everything, something in his gaze actually makes her feel a little better, her smile turning a little genuine while he tries on one of his own. “In that case, I’d say those crazy bastards don’t stand a chance.” There’s a beat. Then, in unison, they both bark out a laugh, smiling for real for once. Nodding back at him, Robin lets Eli pull her up to her feet, giving his giant hand an appreciate squeeze before she heads for the door. She’s just reached it when he voice rings out again, quiet and full of depth. “Baird.” Her hand trembles a little on the doorknob, but when she turns she meets his gaze evenly. Eli’s looking at her intently, clearly trying to get his words in order. Then, after a second, he just sighs and nods at her again, eyes weirdly warm amidst all the hair. “I’m glad we’ve got you around to help us finish all this.”

Robin stares at him for a _long_ time, a surge of something that is _definitely_ annoyance and nothing else rising up in her as she realizes that the miserable militia bastard is about to make her _cry_. Then, finally, fighting down the definite annoyance and the tears alike, she smiles. “Thanks Eli.”

And then she turns and walks away, finds a bunk, curls herself up next to Sharky because Wolf’s Den is freezing and the pyro is fittingly a walking space-heater, and passes right the hell out.

She dreams of hands slowly crushing her throat, and blue eyes filled with hate and apathy and disappointment.

She wakes up shaking and gasping, tears in her eyes and acid on the back of her tongue, and when Sharky and Jess whisper her name she tells them that she’s alright. Sharky pulls her a little closer, and Jess stretches down from the top bunk to put a hand on her shoulder briefly, but they’re too good of friends to call her out as a shit liar before they go back to sleep, leaving Robin alone in the darkness, feeling scared and hollow and shamefully _wanting_ something she refuses to name, telling herself that she’s alright.

Too bad she really is a shit liar.

##############

They stay in the Whitetails for a few days after that, working smaller jobs and clearing a few wolf beacons. Their little chat aside Eli doesn’t act any differently, though Wheaty kind of tiptoes around her and every once in a while she’ll catch the kid staring at her when he thinks she doesn’t notice. Weirdly enough, Tammy _finally_ seems to have warmed to her – like being the soulmate of the monsters destroying everyone’s lives finally qualifies her as being an equal party in Hope County’s suffering (which… yeah, ok, fair enough, Robin’s not going to dispute that).

She’s just finished up a “cleaning job” – blowing a few helicopters straight to hell from off a cliff – and is about to head out and go on a food run down at Clagett Bay with Skylar when it happens.

_“There’s someone out there… pretending to be a soldier.”_

Robin gasps violently, borrowed sniper rifle falling from numb fingers and clattering to the ground as Jess swears up a blue streak nearby. It’s been so long since she’s heard Jacob Seed’s voice like this; not some canned, prerecorded speech, looping over and over on itself while she cuts a bloody swath through one of his outposts, but actually _him_ speaking live over the radio. 

Speaking to _her_.

 _“They are killing our brothers and sisters, and putting this Project in jeopardy. I want this coward to know that they have my attention…”_ She _shudders_ lightning crackling across the back of her neck and heat pooling in her twisting stomach. _“My hunters are coming for you.”_ And there it is – that same cruel hunger that lives and breathes in John’s voice, crawling over and into her skin like fire and lightning and a swarm of insects as he purrs, “There’s nowhere you can run.”

The radio clicks off, then almost immediately clicks back on, Dutch’s voice spilling over the airwaves. 

Robin doesn’t process what he’s saying, doesn’t even process what Jess is hissing from down the Cliffside a ways. All she can think of is John’s hands clawing into her skin, forcing her down beneath the water, eyes filled with hatred and delight. All she can think of is Joseph, touching her gently and speaking softly and then leaving her behind to be tortured _again_. All she can think of is the horror stories she’s heard about what goes on under Jacob’s guidance, about the fact that there’s no way in _hell_ that he’ll not have her fully searched – fully _examined_ – before getting to the torture.

_He’ll find out._

If she were thinking even a little more clearly, if that thought wasn’t overriding everything else, she wouldn’t even consider it. She’d be distracted thinking about getting Jess to safety, be too busy thinking about all the different things that could go wrong. She’d remember how high up she is, and how she’s never _actually_ killed off that fear, just buried it in a shallow grave that it likes to rise from at the most inopportune of times. And she’d _definitely_ remember how much she _hates_ the damn wingsuit.

But all she can think of in the moment is the possibility of Jacob Seed finding out whose ‘marks are on her skin. 

So she takes a few steps backwards, sprints towards the edge of the cliff, and jumps.

There’s the familiar _jolt_ as the wing-flappy-things snap out, catching the wind and lifting her up like some kind of giant mutant flying squirrel over the trees of the Whitetail Mountains. As she speeds over the terrain she actually catches a glimpse of someone in the uniform of the Chosen, perched high in a tree with a bow pointed at where she’d _been_ , staring in what is probably disbelief at where she _is_. That person’s only in her field of vision for a second, though, before she’s soaring faster and faster away. She can just barely hear sounds coming over her radio, but even if she could make them out she probably wouldn’t care. All she cares about is getting the _fuck_ out of Jacob’s region before his people can grab her.

Which is why, some indiscernible amount of time later, she snaps the wingsuit shut and pops her parachute for a few seconds before snapping it loose, slowed down _just_ enough so that plunging into the water feels somewhat less like landing on concrete from a few stories up. She doesn’t even bother resurfacing, on the off chance that there might be boats patrolling the area, just jackknives through the water with single minded determination, finally coming up for air when her vision’s starting to black out and the shores of Dutch’s Island are right in front of her.

Crawling up on the island feels weirdly like coming home, and she figures she might have a slight concussion to go with the panic, adrenaline rush, and oxygen deprivation.

Once she’s stopped dying and is sure no one’s followed her, Robin fumbles with her radio, clicking her cricket – and thank you again, Wendell Redler – into the receiver, then waiting the customary three or so seconds for a torrent of profanity to come flooding back at her.

Satisfied that Jess is neither dead nor captured and undergoing torture – probably, anyway, she doesn’t _think_ the Peggies would give her radio access just to bitch out Robin – she lets herself breathe again and resolves to finish up what she’s started, since she’s on Dutch’s Island and all.

Just as soon as her legs start working again.

Eventually she gets moving again, passing a handful of people on her way to the bunker, waving and nodding politely at their gobsmacked stares but not bothering to stop. She runs into Dave Foster – the first unlucky bastard she’d saved all those months back, the first lunatic who’d picked up a rifle and had her back – who walks and talks with her for a ways. She lets him, because she’s glad for the company to distract her from everything and because Dave – who once saw her nearly blow herself to hell shooting a Bliss barrel and then nearly drown in the shallows – has never _once_ bought into the mass delusion that she’s some kind of hero.

She actually considers inviting him down into the bunker and telling him too, just for a second.

Once she heads below it doesn’t take long to find Dutch, bent over a map, marking out something or other for someone or other. She hangs back, flipping idly through a stray magazine – wolverine hunting tip #1: _Don’t_ – as he finishes up.

She’s couple pages in – wolverine hunting tip #9: Seriously, _don’t_ , how many times do I have to tell you? – when he sets down the pen and sheaf of papers and looks her way. She waves at him, he stares at her, then, after a second, he sighs, walks over to a nearby cabinet, and – 

“Y’know,” Robin drawls, taking the offered glass of amber liquid with a wry expression, “in another time I would be _deeply_ concerned with the way everyone I know keeps trying to get me liquored up.”

Dutch smiles back, something in his expression confirming her long held suspicions that he _knows_ , has known since he fished her out of the water. That he had seen the ‘marks and saved her anyway, kept her safe and kept her secret. 

They sit in relative silence for a while, actually savoring their drinks for once.

She’s turning to Dutch at last, mouth open but not entirely sure what she’s going to say, when the old soldier sets down his glass and shrugs off his jacket.

Robin stares, the weirdest sense of déjà vu flooding her as he rolls up his left sleeve.

The Words there, curving gracefully around his bicep in some sort of fluid Asian lettering, are a faded, blurry purplish gray, like an inked note that’s gone accidentally through the wash.

“Vietnamese.” Dutch says quietly, and Robin’s breath freezes in her chest, heart squeezing painfully as her eyes compulsively track over the faded Words. “My platoon was out one day,” he continues, disconcertingly steady, “business as usual, until we heard it. Mortar shell. Blew three men to mist and ripped the legs off a fourth before we had a chance to react. We tried to take cover, but we still lost eight more men – dead or maimed – before Campbell figured where the shells were coming from. I was right next to him, so the two of us went, running and crawling through the jungle until we reached the nest. Campbell caught his foot on a root or something, nearly went down, so I got there first. Didn’t even bother with my gun – just pulled the pin on a grenade and threw it at the bastard that was killing my brothers. Then, when the smoke cleared, I went in to make sure. And there she was – some little girl about the same age as my kid sister, ripped apart and bleeding out. She looked up at me and said something. The Words had barely finished Resolving before they started fading out. Still don’t know what they say. Stood there for a minute, until Campbell started yelling for me. Then I went back to my platoon. Tried to help patch up whoever was still alive, at least enough to get them to a medic or a field hospital. Then I just… kept going.”

The room is perfectly silent.

Then, sighing once, Dutch rolls his sleeve back down, picks his glass back up, and turns to meet her eyes calmly.

“If you _have_ to, you _can_ live with it.”

Robin stares back at him, eyes dry and Dutch’s own calm washing over her, sinking down into her, bringing a rush of raw pain and _relief_ with it.

Quietly, she nods at Dutch and he nods back.

And there it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Referenced suicide/suicidal thoughts, Referenced torture/murder, Nonconsensual drug-use, and poor coping mechanisms. Also alcohol. 
> 
> _The Hope County Reveal/Apology Tour - featuring Robin Baird, her many issues, and the people who love her despite them. Also worldbuilding. And hyper-violence._
> 
> _So I had a rather long debate RE this chapter. Specifically, I debated whether anyone (*coughcoughMostLikelyTammycoughcough*) should take the news... poorly. Given all the... everything that the Seeds have done/are doing, it made sense that not everyone would be on board with supporting their soulmate (unResolved and unwilling or no), and there's still a part of me that feels like its a little **too** feelsy to have everyone stay on Robin's side. In the end, though, I couldn't shake the feeling that having such a rift with these specific people would just be too... contrived. To much a case of drama for drama's sake (and Lord knows there's probably going to be enough of that in this series as it is). So I decided against having any kind of split; and, honestly, I think it worked pretty well. It definitely helps that, canonically, the closest anyone gets to turning on the Deputy is the Whitetails after Eli's death, and even they still end up deciding that what happened wasn't the Deputy's fault - I figure that applies just as well to strange forces of the great beyond distributing soulbonds to people as it does to brainwashing and wolf-centric slideshows. Also helping is the fact that Robin is **really** visibly against Eden's Gate. Like... full-on Guy Fawkes "bring the fire, burn it all, blow them up, death to the oppressors!" visibly against them. … What was I talking about again?_
> 
> _All that aside... I'm actually pretty damn happy with how this chapter turned out. There was a lot of stuff that I felt **needed** to happen/be touched on, and that ended up lending itself to quite a bit of character work and worldbuilding. Which is... basically my favorite thing that isn't causing pain and misery, really._
> 
> _Well, hope y'all enjoyed this foray into the downtrodden, oppressed, **de** pressed, and general maladjusts trying to communicate like rational and **well** -adjusted adults. **And** I hope y'all had a **great** Thanksgiving!!! Or, in the event that you don't celebrate that one... I hope you had a really great random Thursday! See you next week!_
> 
>  
> 
> _Title comes from "With a Little Help from My Friends" by The Beatles. Because Robin's life is really sad, tbh, but at least she's got a really awesome support system._


	6. The World was on Fire

By unanimous agreement, the Whitetail Mountains are off the books for the foreseeable future. Same with Holland Valley, as just _thinking_ about going back there makes Robin start shaking a little.

That, unfortunately, means that they’re back in Henbane.

Which is just. Fucking. Peachy.

At least the sheriff’s happy.

Nearly two weeks pass in Henbane, and things don’t calm down by any means but they do get back to “normal,” and there’s enough work to do that Robin doesn’t feel like she’s just tucking her tail and burying her head in the sand. She spends most of her time on liberation and hunting missions, blows a few more of Faith’s shrines back to hell, and meets a very… _interesting_ young man who goes by Tweak. Which is fun.

She also gets punched and cussed out by Jess, once the huntress extricates herself from the Whitetails, which is less fun but probably fair.

Most nights – and the occasional day when they pull an all-nighter – they crash at the Jail or 8-Bit, occasionally changing things up by borrowing an abandoned bunker or grabbing a corner in someplace they’ve liberated. They try Drubman Marina precisely _once_ before realizing that _no one_ wants to be that close to Addie and Xander while trying to sleep. Poor Nick is lobster red for the entire next day after that.

It’d almost be business as usual – _“usual” seriously, **fuck everything**_ – except… things are… weirdly tense all across Hope County. Like Robin giving Jacob the slip has changed something, made the Peggies step up their game. On the one hand it’s a good thing, because they’re a lot more cautious in their operations, which means they’re operating a lot _less_. On the other hand, they’re a lot more cautious in _literally everything_ , which means that – when they do move – they’re making fewer mistakes and hitting harder, and are a hell of a lot more difficult to clear out of places they’ve already claimed. Progress slows to a crawl for both sides, and everything feels like the air does before a _bad_ storm hits. Robin ducks her head, crawls through her work, and tries not to think about how much it all feels like it had walking into Eden’s Gate back when everything kicked off.

All things considered, she really should’ve seen it coming. 

Again.

“I’m glad you came.”

She has _just_ enough time to glare up from where she’s passing out, raising a single finger towards the possibly not even there she-demon of Henbane as her vision whites out, brain impotently shrieking at her soon-to-be captor since her mouth’s stopped working. _‘Motherfucker I wish I’d burned your **entire** stupid house down not just the conservatory eat a mint and keep your damn hands to yourself creepy ass bad-touchy bitch I hate you so mu-’_

##############

She opens her eyes to a jackalope nuzzling her face. Which, while an unusually nice way to wake up, is somewhat presumptuous of the mythological little guy. However, Robin’s always had a soft spot for furry things, up to and including certain breeds of spider and the occasional mountain man, so she makes up her mind to forgive it. But just this once.

Ok, maybe more than once. The jackalope _is_ really cute for something that violates the laws of nature.

Someone’s singing from nearby, drawing her attention away from her new friend for a moment, and when she looks back the jackalope’s gone, which is kind of sad, but the singing’s real pretty and she’s really tired of feeling sad so she gets up and walks towards it.

The air’s weirdly heavy, smells really sweet, and the ground beneath her feet and the plants that brush against her hands don’t feel quite right; but none of that seems particularly important at the moment so she just focuses on staying upright, walking straight, walking towards the singing. She can see a tree up ahead with someone under it, and she’s pretty sure that someone’s the singer so she makes her way in that direction, trying not to trip and fall on the shifting ground. She’s just coming up on the singer, small and dainty and pretty – and, very briefly, the thought flickers through her mind that she could wrap her hands around the singer’s pretty little neck and squeeze really hard, but the thought makes her feel sad and tired and hurt again so she lets it disappear just as quickly – and she’s dancing and swirling in a field of lights, when another wave of fog sweeps up, wrapping around Robin like a blanket.

And then the singer isn’t singing anymore, is talking in her ear, and suddenly the sound is a lot less nice because… because…

Because there’s something else, _someone_ else nearby who’s talking, and the first voice is covering it up and Robin would really like it to stop doing that because she _needs_ the other voice and it’s really hard to hear with all the noise so – 

There’s a woman in front of her, staring up at Robin and grabbing her hands, pulling her along firmly. Her eyes fall immediately down to their joined hands for some reason, and there’s an inexplicable wave of relief when she sees bandages wrapped all around her left hand and wrist, and she’s not entirely sure _why_ but she does know that it’s _important_ and she should probably take her hands back so the other girl doesn’t take them off or anything and –

She sees her angel.

Robin’s only aware that the girl’s stopped speaking because finally – _finally_ – she can _hear_ him again, his voice washing over and into her like sunshine and fresh water, easing away all the pain and the fear and the weariness, all the bad things that have been crushing her, and none of that matters anymore because he’s looking at her, eyes for her alone – _like it’s **supposed** to be_ – and he’s walking towards her, walking up to her, and she _wants_.

She tries to pull the Words together – _please don’t go, don’t leave me again, please, I’m so tired, so scared, please make it all stop, please, please prove everything wrong, please want me, love me, please_ – and push them out, but the fog fills up her mouth and blurs up her mind and it’s all she can do to keep standing, keep looking into his eyes, keep listening to his _voice_.

His hands come to rest – gently, warmly, cradling – on her shoulders, and a soft shudder runs through her, her eyes growing heavy and her lips lilting upwards as she sighs and _savors_ the contact. She barely registers the flicker of surprise in his eyes, the short moment melting into a beautiful, hopeful flicker of joy. He smiles at her, lifts one of his hands and gently brushes her cheek, and Robin _melts_ into the touch, letting her head loll into it and nuzzling sleepily at his palm.

“Oh, little one.” She nearly _moans_ at her soulmate’s voice, so warm and full of love, of forgiveness and safety, so _perfect_ as it sweeps over and through her, filling her body with light and lightning. “Are you finally ready to stop fighting? To accept me? To come _home_?”

She _shudders_ , eyes rolling back in her head, and she can _taste_ the Words on her tongue – _yes, yes Joseph, please, anything, anything you want, anything you ask, just please, please want me_ – as his other hand brushes against her other cheek, thumbs rubbing gently against her cheekbones, down to the corners of her mouth, and she opens her lips to let him in and the Words out and – 

There’s thunder in the distance, somewhere.

Robin starts, eyes flying abruptly open as something cold rushes through her, and for a second she thinks she’ll _scream_ she wants the light back so badly.

Her eyes flicker wildly for a moment, darting sightlessly around as she tries to fight down the unwelcome wave of panic, of _awareness_ that’s threatening to overwhelm her. She finally does, finally turns her eyes back to her soulmate.

He’s not smiling anymore.

“People say… that I’m crazy,” the hope, the joy in him is gone, washed away in a tide of _sorrow_ and for the second time she wants to scream, wants to throw herself into him and tear away every shred of pain, to fill him with herself and let him fill her in return until there’s no way to differentiate between them anymore. He keeps talking, his voice still consuming her, but she can’t fully follow the words anymore, too disoriented by the waves of despair and pain that keep washing over her and into her skin, the distant thunder growing steadier and louder as it tries to pull her and her soulmate apart.

He walks away from her.

His hands fall from her skin and he walks away from her _**again**_ , leaves her standing and trembling as he _rages_ , leaves her trying to get her legs working so she can run after him, grab hold of him, throw herself into his arms and speak the Words that will make everything all better.

They’re face to face again, suddenly, and she’s not sure whether she moved or whether he did, but there’s no softness, no warmth or kindness in his face and voice anymore, and the loss of it cuts and bites into the Words on her hand and wrist.

He sounds so _tired_ , so full of _pain_ , so _broken_ , and Robin _knows_ that if she can just force her own Words out she can _fix it_.

But she can’t.

The fog is in her mouth and in her mind and it’s sweeping over her eyes and the thunder grows louder and louder, and she tries to _scream_ for him as he closes his broken eyes and lowers his forehead to hers and –

The world erupts into fire.

##############

There’s hands on her shoulders, rough, violent, shaking her, and a voice is _screaming_ down at her, and it’s all so utterly _wrong_.

The figures looming over her are twisted, warped with darkness and shadows and gunsmoke, and she just wants to go _back_ , to be in the peace and the light, to be with _him_ again.

One of the figures is moving towards her, swinging something down towards her, and she barely gets her hand up in time to catch it, snarling and struggling and fighting against the assault as the wrong voices scream and shriek at her and she just needs to get _free_ , get _away_ from them and back to _him_. 

She’s slammed back into the ground, the rough hands grinding her shoulders down as something pins her legs, something else grabs her head and holds it still, something lands like a bar across her middle, and she screams and flails and snarls but she can’t get free before – 

There’s a sharp, shattering rush in her chest, something plunging through her skin and releasing a stream of ice and fire into her blood, invisible hands clawing at her throat from the inside as she seizes, eyes going painfully wide and mouth gaping in an attempt to breathe. The hands on her relax somewhat, for all the good it does her, and the screaming around her dies down to low murmurs that are no less wrong in her ears and her skin.

Finally she gasps, the breath sending spikes of agony through her body, and slowly her vision starts to clear.

“– scared the shit out of us.”

Robin blinks, blurrily, in the direction of the increasingly familiar voice, tries not to weep when a hand – _too rough, not right_ – sweeps the hair back from her face.

She tries to latch on to _something_ , tries to bring the world into focus, to make _sense_ again. There’s people speaking, voices rising in agitation right next to her, but her head’s still swimming and everything _hurts_ too much.

The rough hand comes back again, less wrong but still not right, clapping her on the shoulder, and the voice – _Boss?_ – says something about getting some rest.

It’s the only thing that makes any sense at the moment, so she stops fighting and lets the darkness take her.

##############

The world is on fire. 

Joseph stalks in front of her, railing, ranting against the world, raw agony warring with exhaustion and anguish, bleeding off of him and into her. Then, with a shudder, he turns back to her, walks back to her, promises salvation and innocence and protection.

“I can save you,” he murmurs, and she aches for everything he has to offer.

He reaches down, picks a flower (perfect and beautiful amidst the destruction) and holds it out to her and she _tries_ to take it but – she’s underwater, cruel hands opening her skin and spilling her blood out into the river and she’s _drowning_ and she’s – on a cliff, swaying with vertigo as howls and screams echo around her, rising higher and higher into a fever pitch and – the helicopter’s crashing, blood raining from the propeller as her partners scream and yell and Joseph _sings_ and – 

She thinks she might be dying.

Something rises up around her; not the fog from before, nothing that can be confused for comforting. The mist around her is thick and gray, cold on her skin, sickening in her throat and lungs. Her soulmates’ voices echo around her – beautiful and perfect and _cruel_ as they cut pieces out of her.

She kind of _hopes_ she’s dying.

The voices echo around her – _lost, afraid, Sinner, Harbinger, unclean, wretch, pathetic, coward, scared little girl, Deceiver, Destroyer, killer, weak, break you to pieces, expose what you are, nothing, nothing, nothing…_

She’s bleeding, thick black blood spilling out of her neck and her chest and her hand and wrist, new floods pulsing out as every word cuts deeper into her, and she wants to _scream_ at them to _stop_ – _stop **hurting** me, for **once** , just **stop, please**!_ – but her mouth is full of mist and fire and water and blood and she _can’t_.

Joseph is there, suddenly, melting out of the mist in front of her, holding out his hands to her and she _wants_ –

“Wow, Robby, you sure know how to pick ‘em.”

Familiar hands clap her on the shoulders, shake her as Joseph stands and watches.

“Told you they were going to be serial killers.”

She shakes her head, “Sh-shut up.”

“I mean,” Tommy’s hands leave as he walks away, grinning, “I’m sure you’ll all be very happy together. Sweet little family of mass murderers.” He coos at her, the shape of him flickering between Tommy Wolcott and Sharky and Tracey. “Just like you’ve always wanted.”

“That’s not –” she’s going to be sick, “I don’t want this.” Joseph keeps staring at her, hands outstretched and smiling at her, all patience and understanding. “I don’t _want_ this.” She tries to snarl, but the best she can manage is a sort of broken whimper, “I didn’t choose this.” Two figures melt out of the mist, standing a step behind Joseph’s open arms and indulgent smile, “I didn’t choose _you!_ ”

“You didn’t have to.” Big steps past her, flickers into Grace, into Nick, and back again. “It’s who you _are_.”

“No.”

“That’s how soulmates work, isn’t it?” Carlos/Jess/Mary May smirks at her.

Ramona/Hurk/Addie tilts her/his head, sneering, “They’re the people you _belong_ with.”

Whitehorse/Pastor Jerome/Tammy/Eli hisses low and disgusted into her ear. “The people you belong _to_.”

_**“No.”** _

“You sure about that, Rook?” Joey grins up at her with a bloody face, and Staci gurgles through his gaping throat, “Because from where we’re standing it looks like you’re one step away from falling down at Joseph’s feet in _worship_.”

“No!” She tries to back away from the Seeds, to clap her hands over her ears, to do _anything_ , but she can’t move. “No I’m…” her voice sounds so pathetic, “I haven’t said anything.”

“Yet.”

“Just a matter of time, really.”

She shudders, eyes burning, and suddenly John and Jacob are grinning down at her in hungry anticipation.

And _there’s_ the rage.

“ _No._ ” She snarls now, teeth bared at everyone around her. “No, I’m not doing this, _any_ of it.”

“Denial isn’t a sustainable resource, you know.”

“Oh,” she manages to tear her eyes off the Seeds, glaring at Tommy/Sharky/Tracey. “Go to _hell_ , asshole!”

He/he/she grins back at her, “Well, we’ll just see you there then.” The grin spreads and stretches, skin ripping and flaking off to expose bone and teeth, “Won’t we, Seedling?”

Her hand curls into a fist, pulls back, and suddenly something’s around her wrist, pulling her off balance and into Joseph’s arms, locking her in as John’s fingers card through her hair and skim over her chest, as Jacob curls around her neck and _holds_.

She can’t _breathe_ , let alone struggle. All she can do is stare up as Joseph leans down, closer and closer to her, breath gusting over her face in hot, wet waves just before he starts licking her – 

_The fuck?_

Robin flails out instinctively, squawking roughly through a raw throat as she tries to shove the frantic muzzle away from her soaking face. “No! Boomer no! Stop!”

“Holy shit, she’s alive!”

“Boshaw, damn it, this is an _fucking infirmary!_ Keep it _down_ you stupid redneck asshole!”

“Robin?” Someone wrestles the writhing mass of fur and slobber off of her, and a pair of familiar faces come into focus above her.

“You back with us, Rook?”

She blinks, wincing as the… everything sends daggers shooting through her eyes and into her skull. “Grace? Boss?”

Tired faces break out into smiles, and Grace’s fingers gently push her hair back from her thoroughly drooled upon face. “You had us scared, girl. How you feeling now?

Robin stares at them for a moment, then slowly flicks her eyes over the room – Nick, staring at her with a huge grin and tears in his eyes, Boomer whining and squirming wildly in his arms, Sharky standing nearby, hands up as he tries to ward off a furiously hissing Tracey, random other Cougars wandering in and out of the room, visiting other patients and running errands.

It’d all be so normal if the sparkles and flames and butterflies would stop seeping out of her aching Words and just fuck off already.

_– Oh Robby Red… you’re just one **fucked up** little disaster, aren’t you? –_

Groaning, Robin collapses back to the bed, forcing one eye open a crack despite the burning of the light. “Boss…” she croaks out, “my auditory hallucinations won’t stop insulting me.”

The sheriff’s eyes tighten a little, his jaw clenching as Grace shoots him a deeply concerned Look. One of his rough, weathered hands comes gently down on her shoulder, the warm squeeze loosening a knot of tension in her chest and chasing away a few of the butterflies. “Rook,” his voice is casual, light, and steady, like he’s sending her out on a routine follow up. “Don’t listen to the Bliss.”

That seems to make sense, and she nods slowly. “Okay Boss.” Her eyelids feels really heavy, so she lets them fall closed. “Boss? The Bliss really _sucks._ ”

There’s a low chuckle from beyond the growing darkness, and a warm and weathered hand takes hers. “Yeah. Yeah it really does.”

##############

“ – and _cherries_. I do _not_ know why, I’ve never really been that into them, but _damn_ do I miss cherries. Actually,” Nick chugs down a mouthful of beer, gesturing passionately with the can, “ _that’s_ what I’m going to do first when it’s all cleared up – I’m gunna express order a whole _mess_ of cherries, and I am just going to eat them until I’m _sick_.”

Robin chuckles around a mouthful of granola, “Well look at you, being all healthy like. How ‘bout you?” She kicks out at Jess’ ankle, “You jumping on the fruit train too?”

The huntress snorts incredulously, “Not a chance.” Then she pauses, can halfway to her mouth, head cocked to the side in thought. “Actually, y’know what I really miss? Cheeseburgers. No, not _you_ , monster,” she smirks at the giant fuzzy head that’s suddenly perked up. “And not _for_ you, either.”

“Don’t look at me.” Robin backs Jess up when massive brown eyes turn, pleading and mournful, towards her. ”You _do_ have ‘the diabeetus.’” 

“But yeah,” Jess continues, intense all of a sudden, “ _seriously_. Like... like a _real_ cheeseburger, with an actual bun, and grilled onions and cheese and ketchup and bacon and… and –”

“ _Onion rings_.” Sharky looks and sounds like someone having a religious awakening, sans the torture and murder and abductions and all that. “Onion rings _on_ the burger. And the bun grilled, with like… garlic butter.”

“Cheese fries on the side,” Grace _purrs_ , “covered in bacon and jalapenos.”

“And gravy.” Nick adds, wide eyed, “ _Trust_ me.”

“And a chocolate malt.” Addie and Hurk finish in perfect unison.

Sighing roughly, Robin stares down at her handful of bone-dry granola in raw despair. “Why do we keep doing this to ourselves?” She lets the granola funnel back into its bag, wearily, “Like… life’s not bad enough, we’ve got to start self-flagellating or whatever?”

“Self-what?” Hurk’s head wheels towards her. “That like masturbatin’ or somethin’?”

There’s a mixed chorus of groans and snickers, and Jess kicks a rock in his direction. “No dipshit. It’s a ritualized form of self-harm used to atone for misdeeds.” The chorus abruptly breaks off into a wave of silence, and Jess blinks around the circle of faces, defensive and self-conscious. “ _What?_ I know about more than hunting shit.”

The other women start chuckling as Sharky and Nick sputter protests, but Hurk just grins in dawning realization. “Oh! So we’re like... gettin’ in touch with our inner Seeds!”

And just like that everything _stops_.

“I’m fine.” Robin makes herself say, just before the others can turn on Hurk. “I’m…” she scoffs roughly, “I can _hear_ the name without… I’m not _that_ …” She takes a deep breath, swallowing hard and rasping her fingers against her scalp. “Hey,” she barks out after a second, popping her head up and forcing a grin onto her face, “you know what I miss? Grilled cheese. Grilled cheese is delicious, you ever put peanut butter on it? Sounds wrong, I know, but _damn_ it’s amazing.”

She gasps a little into the silence. 

Then everyone jumps in at once, blabbering about stuff they’ve missed and weird food combinations that shouldn’t work as well as they do, and Robin chucks a fresh beer at Hurk so he’ll stop hanging his head and staring up at her like the world’s saddest and guiltiest redneck puppy.

The night drags on after that, the fire in front of them and sounds below them dying down bit by bit, until it’s just Robin, Grace, Nick, Sharky, and Hurk still awake in Sacred Skies proper, sprawled out around one of the outlying cabins while the handful of sentries patrol further out still. The beer’s nothing to write home about, but they’ve got a _lot_ of it, and Robin’s long since passed caring that she’s probably going to come out of all this – assuming she survives – as an alcoholic and has downed enough to make herself heavily-buzzed-approaching-numb.

In retrospect, she will determine that there are more reasons than hypothetical alcoholism to avoid reaching that state, because it’s probably the reason why she ends up breaking into some conversation about the feasibility of using condoms and/or water balloons filled with moonshine as incendiary aids. “Nick? What did it feel like when Kim’s ‘mark Resolved on you?”

The others fall silent. 

“It was… I…” Nick stutters a little, eyes flickering away from Robin to the others – like he’s looking for permission or help or something – and then back again. Her brain’s caught up to her mouth, but she can’t quite bring herself retracting the question, and just holds his gaze as calmly as she can until, finally, he sighs heavily and nods. “Ok, so… there was this really weird time when I was nine. I was tired all the time and I couldn’t focus, kept zoning out and not hearing when people spoke to me, didn’t ever feel like eating, kept tripping over my own feet and running into stuff all over the place. My mom wanted to take me to the doctor for a while, but I never actually started running a fever or anything and I didn’t feel _sick_ , so my parents just ended up deciding that it was some kind of weird growth thing and figured we’d wait it out. Then after, like, two weeks I was at school and I tripped into some other kid and knocked him over, and everyone started laughing so he got pissed and took a swing at me. Clocked me right here,” he taps just under his left cheekbone, “ _hard_. And just when he hit me I felt something _pop_ , inside my head, and suddenly all this pus and stuff just comes _spraying_ out my right ear like a _geyser_ ,” one of the others makes a strangled sound of pure disgust, and Nick nods with a wince, “ _yeah_ , tell me about it, it was _nasty_. And like… some of it got on this other kid and then he and the kid who’d punched me just started _puking_ so – anyway…” Hurk’s actually retching a little, the others mostly just looking disgusted and confused and a little impatient, and Nick’s rushes through the next few words. “Anyway, this is all happening and then a teacher comes out, trying to figure out what the hell’s going on, and she sees me with all this junk dripping out my ear and the other two puking and she takes us to the nurse. Turns out I had an inner ear infection the whole time; and the other kid must’ve knocked something loose or something when he punched me. And, well…” he trails off for a second, face twitching uncomfortably before he sighs again, “ok, no one _ever_ tells Kim this…” his index finger points deliberately towards Sharky and Hurk, expression deadly serious for a moment, “but… well, that’s what it felt like when she spoke to me for the first time. ‘Cause, I mean, it _hurt_ ‘cause she was mad at me, and I felt really sick after ‘cause she was all upset, but… at the same time there was just this _relief_. ‘Cause she was worried because she _cared_ about what happened to me, and ‘cause all of a sudden all this… this pressure and this wrongness that I didn’t even know was there was just _gone_. Like… something _popped_ , and it hurt but it felt so damn _good_ that the hurt didn’t even matter. I don’t know.” One hand runs up over his face and back through his hair, “That’s the only way I’ve ever been able to describe it, I guess.” 

The others are still quiet, though they’re all smiling a little.

Then, and Nick must be a little too buzzed too, he looks back up at Robin. “How did it feel when…”

_“Nick.”_

He flinches, eyes flicking between the horrified Grace and the motionless deputy. “I… Robby I’m sor-”

“There wasn’t any relief.” Her voice is flat, toneless, eyes pointed towards Nick but staring blankly. “It just hurt. Both times.”

“Boss…”

“Since then though, it’s…” She keeps going, like Sharky hadn’t started to speak, like the others hadn’t been reaching towards her. As she goes the words start to tremble, “it’s been different.” She swallows, roughly, “With Joseph, at least. I keep… feeling…” A shudder sweeps over her, and her hands twitch up into her lap to rub compulsively together. “It’s getting really hard to…”

Grace moves, stands and crosses over to her, sits down next to the shivering deputy and puts a hand over hers. “It’s going to be alright, Robin.” Her hand squeezes lightly, comfortingly, “We’ve got your back. They’re not going to just find out on their own , and you haven’t said anything s-“

“I want to, though.” Their eyes lock, and she can see the quiet shock and – hidden deep down – growing fear in the soldier’s gaze. “I… I want to, Grace… _so much_.” Her eyes are burning, throat constricting as she trembles and forces the words out, “And I don’t think I can blame it all on the Bliss anymore.”

Silence falls again.

It’s becoming frustratingly familiar.

Slowly Grace puts an arm around her shoulder, Nick’s starting to get out of his chair, and everyone looks unbelievably sympathetic and supportive.

At which point Robin’s instincts kick back into gear and the rage returns.

“Why the hell is any of this even _happening?!_ ” She throws herself to her feet, knocking her chair over backwards and practically spitting as she snarls. Too much cheap beer and too little sleep, too many _delightful_ surprises and unexpected get-togethers, too much fear and too much _fucking trauma_ that’s been building and building inside her to stoke up the fires of her rage, and the words pour out before she can even think about what she’s saying. “They’re supposed to _love me_ , damn it, not…” She turns away from the others, hands fisting roughly in her hair. Her tongue burns even as she speaks, shame roiling in her stomach and surging up to turn her whole mouth sour. “ _What did I do?!_ ” Robin snarls, eyes burning. Then, suddenly, her whole body shudders involuntarily and she just… deflates, knees shaking as she slumps backwards a little. A hand catches her by the elbow, Grace curling around her protectively, and she looks up into the older woman’s eyes, tears fighting to spill out of her eyes. “What did I do? What could I possibly have ever done to deserve this?”

“Well, it doesn’t have anything to do with deservin,’” a voice cut through the air, quietly, casual, “it’s just ‘cause it’s who you are.”

_**“Hurk!”** _

“No! No wait, that’s not…” Realization floods over the man’s face, followed immediately by blind horror. That part he’s got in common with Grace and Nick and Sharky. Robin just feels like she’s been shot. “I mean…” Hurk stutters, stammers for a moment, hands flickering wildly through the air as he tries to pull himself together enough to explain. “Look, people usually think about soulmates as a love thing, right? Romantic love and physical love and all that. But, it’s _not_ , can’t be, ‘cause you get soulmates who are best friends and soulmates who are like family and soulmates who actually _are_ family and don’t go in for the incest, and if it were some kind of cosmic datin’ service then all soulmates’d end up fuckin’ all the time and that’s not what happens.” He seems to fall into some kind of rhythm as he goes, panic bleeding off slightly as a note of confidence enters his voice. “Soulmates aren’t about _romance_ , they’re about universal _balance._ It’s a yin-yang thing.”

“Hurk,” Sharky’s voice, when it comes, is a barely contained snarl of rage, “what in the _hell_ are you talkin’ about?”

The larger man turns to his cousin, hands gesturing wildly again. “Y’know man, yin-yang, it’s… it’s like… like the magic fish!” His eyes brighten, and he leans over to slap Sharky lightly on the shoulder, gesturing at him as he continues. “Y’know what I’m talkin’ about – one’s the moon and one’s the ocean an-” 

And just like that the pyromaniac’s anger evaporates, eyes brightening to match his cousin. “Oh! Oh yeah! And they need to keep circlin’ each other or everythin’ gets all fucked up!”

Nick looks over at Grace and Robin, his own anger fading in the face of confusion. Grace merely squeezes Robin a little closer, gritting out, “What in the hell are you _both_ talking about?”

There’s twin flinches, like the cousins are suddenly embarrassed by something. “It’s a… it’s a thing from a philosophical work.”

Nick’s gaze has turned to the other men, his brows knit together in confused contemplation. Then, abruptly, his expression performs an abrupt shift from confusion, to realization, to sheer incredulity. “Wait, are you two talking about that Avat- the thing o-“ his jaw drops in disbelief, “that’s a _children’s cartoon_!”

Hurk is still shuffling, red faced, but Sharky draws himself up with injured dignity. “It is a profound and careful constructed work that celebrates diversity and teamwork and holds great respect for the beliefs of other cultures, and serves as a gateway to greater understandin’ and spirituality.” And now _everyone’s_ staring at him, all other emotions temporarily suspended in favor of incredulous disbelief. Sharky holds his dignity for three seconds – probably a personal record – before wilting a little with a blush. “It’s got people who can shoot _fire_ out their hands.”

“Anyway,” Hurk, against all odds, seems to be acting as the voice of reason. Somehow. “Soulmates are… are like the magic fish. They’re there to balance each other out. Push, pull; action, reaction; moon, ocean; ebony, ivory. So like,” he turns his attention fully back to Robin, “it’s probably that the Monkey god looked down at Earth one day and saw the Seeds and was like ‘Oh shit! What happened there?! That’s not good, I gotta do somethin’ about that!’ And that’s…” He spreads his hands towards her, expression uncharacteristically serious and sincere, “that’s you.” He shuffles a little, again, clearly uncomfortable with the amount and sort of attention that’s resting entirely on him, but he keeps going anyway, voice weirdly quiet but powerful. “It’s not that you’re like them or that you’re bein’ punished or anything, it’s… it’s a balance. It’s that… the world _needed_ the ultimate badass to balance out all three of them. And you’re that badass.” Hurk looks up at her, and it’s not the worshipful, blind hope that she sees on random Resistance members reflected in his eyes. It’s something real, something _pure_. Something from someone who’s seen her ups and downs and utter fuck-ups and still _believes_ in her. “You’re the magic moon fish that’s gunna kick their magic ocean fish is the ass and keep it from destroyin’ the world.”

Still tucked away in Grace’s arms, Robin stares, wide eyed and slack jawed, at him. “Hurk…” her voice catches a little, and she has to swallow down another wave of heat behind her eyes. “That… might actually be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me about all this.”

Hurk _beams_ up at her, and that’s the point she realizes she’s smiling too – albeit a little less brightly. The others seem to take this as their cue; Nick and Sharky smiling a little themselves and settling back into their chairs, and Grace giving her one solid squeeze before walking them both back, standing Robin’s chair back up, and clapping her lightly on the shoulder. Slowly, the others pick up their earlier conversation where they left off – the sticking point seems to involve volume of device vs quantity of available devices – and Robin let’s herself melt back into her chair and tries to breathe.

On further review, Hurk’s theory really _is_ the nicest explanation for her ‘marks anyone’s ever given her.

Robin closes her eyes, and wonders if she can make herself buy into it.

##############

“How many of these bastards even _are_ there?!” Robin ducks back behind the counter, fingers fumbling to reload the AR-C she keeps around for situations exactly like this, when a seemingly endless horde of Peggies swarm over them like ants out of a kicked hill. “I mean… I could _swear_ we’ve already killed more Peggies then there are people total in Hope County, and then this kinda shit keeps happening! What do they even have in those bunkers? High-tech cloning facilities?”

The man she addresses that last bit towards doesn’t respond, but then if _she_ was tied up on the floor in the middle of a siege, knowing that the only thing standing between her and the psychopaths who thought they were on a rescue mission were the fairly high-strung Resistance fighters who already weren’t that happy with her – defector or no – then she’d _probably_ be a little taciturn herself.

“Probably not, right? That’d be ridiculous.” The door bursts open and she leans out near ground level, shooting up through the undersides of the Peggies’ jaws before they even clear the door, then chucks out a stick of dynamite and immediately pulls back, breathing heavily. “Yep.” She waits out the explosion. “Totally ridiculous.” There’s a roar outside the building, bullets and explosions and the thunder of plane engines thundering as another wave of Peggies hits them. “They don’t actually have cloning facilities,” she side-eyes the defector nervously, “do they?”

The guy might actually not be listening to her, it occurs as he starts weeping on the floor.

She’d be lying if she said she couldn’t relate with the impulse.

“Hey,” Robin takes a moment, leans over and claps the guy on the shoulder, startling him briefly back to awareness, “We’re not going to let them take you.” She holds his eyes for a few precious seconds. Then she _grins_ at him, bright and sunny and full of the promise of destruction, “So just sit tight ‘til our ride gets here, alright?”

She doesn’t notice if the guy responds, being a little busy shooting the face off a Peggy who tries sneaking in through the backdoor.

The minutes that follow are almost – ironically – peaceful as Robin looses herself in the violence, mind going beautifully numb in the repetitive cycle of shoot-cover-reload-shoot. It’s almost disappointing when the call from Pastor Jerome comes to move out.

She turns to the defector in a lull, pulls him to his feet, and is promptly knocked off her own when an explosion rocks the entire trailer.

Her eyes blink back on a few seconds later, screams and moans echoing confusingly around her as she struggles upright, shakes her head, swipes blood out of her eyes as she gives herself a quick once over. Then swears up a storm when she realizes _she’s_ fine – apart from a probably looks-worse-than-it-is cut on her forehead – but the defector’s writhing and screaming on the ground with a thoroughly jacked up leg. 

“Y’know,” she mutters through clenched teeth, sliding over next to the guy and stemming the blood flow as best she can, “if the Peggies could stop trying to kill the people they say they’re trying to save, they’d probably ‘Save’ a _hell_ of a lot more people.”

The defector responds with a strangled wail.

“I suppose you’re right – that kind of behavior _would_ threaten their membership in the ‘fucking crazy cult of evil’ club, wouldn’t it. Well then,” she ties off a bandage with a hissed breath and forced grin, “good news-bad news time. Good news – I drew from the tall and built deck from _both_ sides of my family tree, so we’ve actually got a shot at getting out of here. Bad news –” Robin gets into position and steels herself, “you are just big enough yourself to make this _really_ awkward and uncomfortable for the both of us.”

Her prediction is true – very true. Very, _very_ true – but she _does_ manage to get the guy in a fireman carry, get back to her feet, draw her 1911, and get the defector to the extraction point without falling over, dropping him, or dying.

So, while she’s still got some possibly cloned Peggies left to kill, Robin decides to call it a win.

_“Deputy… you’ve had your fun.”_

Robin should really fucking know better by now.

 _“But all sinners must confess. This is the will of The Father. My men are coming for you.”_ His voice drops into its purr and her heart just drops. _“I’ll see you soon.”_

Robin dives behind a tree, fighting to keep from hyperventilating for reasons that have very little to do with the surviving Peggies – who don’t seem to have caught John’s latest broadcast and are employing live ammunition in her particular direction. Her radio’s clicked back on – Dutch this time – and one of the Resistance members who’s been covering her is shouting for her to fucking run already, but she barely processes either sound over her own racing thoughts.

She’s damn close to the Whitetails, but that isn’t a better alternative by _anyone’s_ standards. Heading South – further back into Holland Valley – is beyond pointless, and there’s nothing to the West but really big mountains and – more than likely – more of John’s people. All that leaves her with is the East, trying to get to the water so she can swim for the theoretical safety of Henbane or – more likely – Dutch’s Island.

And just when it’d seemed safe to go back into the Valley again.

She takes a few quick, deep breaths, waiting for the Peggies to reload, pulling her rarely used AR-C back up with unnaturally steady hands.

And then she _runs_.

Someone catches sight of her, bellows it out to the others, and she fires into their head without slowing. She can hear furious voices all around her, and someone’s gotten the memo and is screaming about Bliss bullets, but _her_ people are still around too, and the bloody pandemonium of the earlier siege steps up for round two.

There’s a pair of roars overhead – a Peggy plane cutting off its assault of the Resistance when Nick comes swooping in with Carmina.

Somewhere nearby she hears the distinctive sound of a sniper rifle, and the terrified shouts of Peggies who’ve realized they’re dealing with Grace Motherfucking Armstrong.

And then, just as she’s lobbing a homemade explosive at some Peggies and the water’s in sight, Robin hears a kid scream out in fear and agony.

She moves without thinking twice, hurtling over some debris and slamming the butt of her rifle over a Peggy’s head, then headshotting his buddy. Robin doesn’t _know_ the kid she yanks up off the ground, but she does recognize him – a couple years younger than her, stationed at Sunrise, has an ugly yellow mutt that follows him everywhere – well enough to toss him the AR-C and default back to her 1911.

The decision seems to be a good one; the kid snaps the rifle up like a trained soldier – basically is one by now, really – and they start moving together, firing rounds off into cultist after cultist as they make their way to the river.

They do reach it.

Just as a boat comes roaring up.

Robin shoves the kid away, screaming out a curse as something grazes her along her right shoulder. Conscious thought starts dying away and animal instinct takes hold as the traces of Bliss bullet start doing their work, and Robin hazily finds herself running towards the forest line now, away from the shouts and gunfire behind her.

She’s in the trees when another Bliss bullet hits her, burying itself below the graze and right into her right bicep, and she pitches forward and hits the ground with a strangled scream.

 _Well_ , she thinks as the world fades to white, as a voice starts talking about her putting up a good fight and another orders her taken to John, _this isn’t good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings for: Nonconsensual drug-use, steadily growing self-hatred, and descriptions of icky stuff related to inner ear infections.
> 
> _So yeah. That happened. And can't be at all good. … … Progress!_
> 
> _The Magical Moon Fish discussed are, of course, Tui and La from_ Avatar: The Last Airbender; _because there's no way in hell that Hurk and Sharky wouldn't totally watch the hell out of that show (Nick totally watched it too, he's just not admitting it at the moment). I like the idea that different cultures might have different interpretations of what soulmates are/mean, and it struck me that Hurk is actually probably the best versed in such interpretations. Also, Hurk is actually a very profound, deep, and philosophical redneck international arms-dealer, fight me._
> 
> _Anyway... *sudden Shiro Shinobi voice* **Will our intrepid heroine get out of this one with her secret (and her skin) intact? Or will the dastardly devil that is John Seed uncover the truth and put the kibosh on her escape? Tune in to the next installment of Robin Baird's Unending Nightmare to find out. Until then, thank you for reading and I'll see you next time!**_
> 
>  
> 
> _Title comes from "Wicked Game" covered by Ursine Vulpine ft. Annaca (original by Chris Isaak). Because being Robin's life kind of sucks and she could really use a hug._


	7. Interlude: Jacob - And Thank the Lord I Don’t Have My Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hey, I wonder what Jacob's been up to lately. What do you say we check in on him; I mean... it's not like there's anything else pressing going on at the moment, right?_

Jacob starts getting a sense of foreboding after the helicopter goes down, when the idiot marshal and the junior deputy _both_ vanish from the wreckage. It’s faint at first – after all, the two are still deep in Eden’s Gate territory, so their recapture is more a question of when than anything else.

He’s a little annoyed when they steal the car. When it goes careening off into the water – when only the _marshal_ resurfaces – something unpleasant claws at his insides.

He would chalk it all up to the inconvenience, to his hatred of waste and… but for how eerily unconcerned Joseph is.

They’re together when Faith’s people grab the marshal, dragging him off to Henbane at The Father’s approving nod – _good riddance_ – and scanning the surface of the water for any signs of life. There’s nothing, nor is there any luck had by the faithful combing the shores, and Jacob’s growling in an uncharacteristic swell of displeasure at the deputy’s death, but Joseph… Joseph’s big eyes look up at him, see through him, and there’s a small, sad smile on his face when he takes Jacob’s left hand in his, presses two soft kisses – one on the back of his hand, one of the back of his wrist – before breathing “Patience, Jacob,” against his skin. Then Joseph turns back to his flock, and Jacob returns to the Whitetail Mountains, and there’s no time to dwell on might’ve-beens or Joseph’s cryptic promises.

As it turns out, however, he wouldn’t even have needed that much patience, had he been paying attention.

The first sign comes not two days after The Reaping begins, and later he will snarl that none of them took it seriously enough. Hell, Jacob himself doesn’t even _learn_ that they’ve lost the island in the South of his territory until it’s been lost for _days_ – an oversight that several of his soldiers learn a _very_ serious lesson about. It burns in his craw, both from the challenge itself and from the way neither of his brothers seem concerned; and alright, _fine_ , that island may not be of any real importance, but _damn_ it _any_ loss of territory – much less one so close to Joseph – is a problem for a _number_ of reasons. But, as much as Jacob wants to take it back the second he learns of its loss… there _are_ more pressing concerns. So Jacob grits his teeth, carves out some personnel to set the ground work on retaking the island, and turns himself back to handling the “militia” and training up his new recruits.

Later he will curse himself for ignoring his instincts.

What follows could be dismissed as basic resistance – more and of a better quality than he’d expected, but still within the realm of feasibility. A few shipments get highjacked, a few faithful turn up dead, and a few sinners go missing; it’s inconvenient, but honestly it probably would barely have registered if he didn’t keep such a close eye on his baby brother’s territory. Likewise, when a silo goes up in a great gout of flame it’s something annoying but, ultimately, expected.

Then John looses Sunrise Farms.

 _That’s_ unexpected, and gives him more than a twitch of concern.

The concern only grows over the next few days, first as it becomes clear that the loss is starting to set a tone in Holland Valley, then when it comes out that John’s been downplaying the severity of resistance he’s been facing.

Then, just as Jacob’s starting to revise his opinion of Jerome Jeffries, things start going similarly FUBAR – uncannily so – in Henbane.

Faith – who’s been twitchy and anxious and on edge ever since she lost Earl Whitehorse, and rightfully so – is a ball of barely restrained nerves as things start toppling like dominos around her. First the siege on the jail is broken, giving “The Cougars” a stable base in the heart of her territory. Then she loses three shrines in one day, all the more concerning in that the attacks are too spread out, timewise, to be a coordinated op. And all around and in between these inconveniences are a series of small, mosquito bite hits – like there’d been in Holland Valley – on various little targets, the little attacks of opportunity that always seem like nothing at all until they’ve bled you dry.

It’s about two weeks in, when one of Jacob’s Chosen brings him the impossible news that they’ve lost Baron Lumber Mill – before they even knew it was under attack – and that The Cook’s dead – courtesy of Jess Black and some unknown accomplice – that it hits Jacob that they’re dealing with _one person_.

And, like that realization’s a switch someone’s flipped, things start to pick up speed all over Hope County.

The particularly frustrating part, at first, is that he cannot work out who in the hell this person – who “The Rook” (and _fuck_ , they’ve got a nickname already, that’s _inconvenient_ ) – is. He _knows_ it’s not Eli Palmer, not quite his style of work _and_ the mongrel’s a little too busy making Jacob’s day-to-day _annoying_ up in the Whitetail Mountains to go gallivanting around Holland Valley and Henbane. He half suspects Grace Armstrong – the only real soldier in Hope County outside of Jacob’s command – but… but it just doesn’t quite _fit_ ; because the woman’s a good soldier and a damn fine sniper, but this style of up-close warfare just isn’t her. He’d almost think they’d missed an actual operative of some kind – special forces, black ops, hell, even CIA – in some back corner of Hope County, except _that_ doesn’t fit _either_. It’s all too… raw. Untried and untested and unfocused – perfectly ghosted work that gets suddenly, randomly punctuated by uncontrolled violence and mayhem. There’s a wildness – a _brutality_ – that’s entirely unprofessional; a degree of _personal_ offense and blind rage that you just wouldn’t see from someone who’s been trained for this kind of thing. And as devastating as The Rook is, they’re also _sloppy_. They’re too prone to stupid mistakes and miscalculations, to little acts of _pettiness_ that just _scream_ of inexperience. As much as it _galls_ Jacob to admit it, he knows they’re not dealing with any real soldier or agent. No. No, The Rook is someone who’s gifted, someone who’s learning as they go, and someone who needs to _die_ as quickly as possible, before they can get the experience they need to cause _real_ problems for the Project. 

In retrospect, Jacob _really_ should have seen it coming.

But he didn’t. And so, when one of his people _finally_ gets eyes on The Rook and _survives_ to bring the information back, brings the description of a beautiful young woman with blazing red hair and green eyes to Jacob and his brothers, when it hits like a ton of bricks that the one who’s been almost single handedly sending their carefully laid plans screaming off the rails is the fucking _junior deputy_ – the scared, promising little girl whose apparent death caused Jacob such frustration – then… well. It’s not what he’s been expecting to learn. To say the least.

Part of Jacob – admittedly – is so damned _proud_ of her, of his special girl, that he can barely see straight. The rest of him is already planning out the best way to kill her ASAP, before she can cause them more problems.

At which point Joseph decides to be _fucking annoying_.

The Deputy, it seems, is not to be killed. The Deputy, Joseph says, is meant to join them. The Deputy, “The Voice” apparently revealed, _must_ be brought into Eden’s Gate if they are to have any hope of success.

The Deputy, Jacob shoots back, is fucking shit up all over Hope County and, at this rate, will probably take any mercy offered her and use it to kill them all if someone doesn’t _deal with her._ Permanently.

The second the words leave his mouth – John’s eyes getting all wide and Joseph’s face going sad and disappointed – Jacob knows that he’s _seriously_ erred.

He should have just kept his damn mouth shut, nodded, gotten out of there, and waited for an opportunity to arise so that he could put her down without putting Joseph on alert.

Instead he gets to spend the rest of the afternoon dealing with sermons about faith and forgiveness, enduring Joseph’s sad “I _know_ you’re just pretending to believe for my sake but I’m not giving up on you until you see the light because _**I love you Jacob.**_ ” looks, and desperately fighting back the urge to palm John’s smug “Jacob got in trouble!” face into a stack of pillows until the little shit knocks it off. 

Some days, if he didn’t love the ridiculous little bastards so much…

The end results are, as always, that Jacob sighs and grits his teeth and bows to Joseph’s will; the whole deal sealed with his hand on the back of Joseph’s neck, a kiss on the back of Jacob’s hand and wrist, and John shuffling and pouting until they open their arms to him, his head ducking low to rest against their chests while Jacob cradles the back of his neck and Joseph presses kisses into his skin.

And normally that’d be enough to settle Jacob – to calm his nerves and quiet the ghosts, to restore his faith in his Joseph.

Now the old, familiar ritual is little better than throwing a Band-Aid over a bullet hole, and things don’t get any better as days, _weeks_ pass by and the deputy’s still out there, still leaving fire and death and ruin in her wake, tearing down everything Joseph and John and Jacob have built.

Joseph holds his stance, keeps reminding them to have faith, that the Voice has promised their victory so long as The Deputy is brought into the fold. So Jacob grits his teeth, goes about the Project’s business, and makes sure his Chosen know to bring the girl in _alive_. By all rights, he tells himself, there’s no way she should be able to continue evading capture now that that’s what they’ve set their minds to.

Jacob just wishes he could believe that’s an end to things.

##############

That’s not an end to things.

The Junior Deputy doesn’t stop her little crusade, the Project’s disciples don’t _catch_ her, and already Jacob can see the very _personal_ problems her existence is causing his family.

John is, slowly but surely, falling into somewhere very dangerous because of the girl. Jacob can see the warning signs whenever he so much as glances at his little brother – the predatory shift in his posture, the childlike cant of his head, the way his hands twitch ( _like a junkie looking for a fix_ ) and his tongue flicks compulsively out over his lower lip, the raw want and hunger in his smiles and, worst of all, the ever growing well of mixed Wrath and Lust that’s barely hidden behind his eyes. John _wants_ the deputy, _has_ done so since they’d first seen her, and now – now that she’s challenging them, now that she’s making herself more and more a threat, now that she’s even more something that John _can’t have_ – all that want is seething and surging up, and it _scares_ Jacob, makes him want to hide anything sharp and pull Johnny’s poor, marked up body into his arms where he’ll be _safe_. Jacob’s baby brother does _not_ handle temptation, or deprivation, well; and the pretty little deputy is shaping up to be an exquisite banquet after forty days and nights in the wilderness. So yeah, John’s in serious trouble.

Joseph, of course, is no help on this front. Oh he makes himself constantly available, as always – ready with support and council and all the things that _don’t help_ because he’s just repeating all the same shit over and over again. And _damn it_ , Jacob loves his brother, loves him with everything he’s got, has loved him more than anything – save Johnny himself – ever since the day he was born but… but _sometimes_ … But if Joseph could just remember that John’s _human_ , that he’s been impossibly hurt and needs more than the same lines about faith and forgiveness – about not giving in to his sins and temptations – thrown his way, then that would be _great_. Seriously, Jacob would really appreciate some real, _practical_ support on this.

And not helping matters _at all_ is that there’s a distinct “do as I say, not as I do” vibe to Joseph’s council where The Deputy’s concerned.

Because he’ll go on about saving the girl, about how _vital_ her redemption is, how they _need_ her. He’ll preach on forgiveness and love, cite verse after verse at them and talk about keeping faith and trusting in The Voice and _believing_ until John’s tense and jittery and ready to claw his skin off and Jacob’s on the verge of clapping a hand over Joseph’s mouth and trying to shake some basic rationality into him. And yet, for all that, there’s doubt in Joseph’s eyes. Oh it’s small and weak, buried deep under the fire of his very real faith and trust in his Voice. Maybe it’s purely subconscious. Probably no one can see it but Jacob. But Jacob _does_ see it and it scares him. He sees the little twinges of frustration whenever an outpost is lost or a holy site is destroyed. He sees the flare of pain and righteous fury whenever sinners are stolen away before their souls can be saved. He sees the sickly swell of _doubt_ when Joseph talks about saving The Deputy, the briefest flashes of longing whenever Jacob reminds him that they could just kill her instead, followed by cold fire in his eyes when he reminds them – reminds _himself_ – that The Deputy’s salvation is not a matter that’s up for debate. The girl is making Joseph doubt his Voice, and that’s _bad_. If John running up against sin and temptation is dangerous, then Joseph doing so – coming to the place where his flesh comes into conflict with his faith – is fucking _terrifying_. He’s never entirely certain how Joseph will react in such situations, but it’s never good.

And Jacob? Jacob has moved to a point where he doesn’t want the girl to die anymore. No. Now Jacob fucking _needs_ her to die.

Soon.

Because Whitehorse’s littlest deputy is putting Jacob’s brothers – his _soulmates_ – in pain and danger, and that is _not_ something that he can or will tolerate.

And that’s just the purely individual problems they’re facing; not even getting into all the problems she’s causing the Project as a whole – the loss of outposts and resources and supplies, the cost of personnel, the general wholesale destruction and, worst of all, the effect she’s having on the “Resistance” cells. The weaklings and toy soldiers are starting to _hope_ because of her – their Deputy, their Rook, their sweet Angel of Death and her little crew of misfits – and Jacob knows full well how _dangerous_ that is.

And then, one seemingly innocuous day, one of Jacob’s Chosen interrupts an interrogation session to let him know there’s trouble in Holland Valley.

Seems John finally caught himself a Deputy, baptized her, and then promptly lost her. And then, as John was still reeling and raging over that, the little girl apparently decided to express her feelings on the experience with a bloody, violent rampage across John’s territory, culminating in the destruction of the stupid eye-sore of a sign that John had been so damn proud of.

Jacob’s baby brother is practically foaming at the mouth over the whole experience.

Joseph steals John’s personal radio several minutes into a hysterical, ranting call, strains out “ _Alive_ , Jacob,” at him, and then presumably gets down to pulling John off the precipice of Wrath.

Jacob snarls, seethes, and then goes off to give Deputy Pratt a little personal attention.

That helps.

A little.

Things are almost unbearably tense for the next few days, the Deputy going quiet before resurfacing suddenly in Henbane. John’s still fuming, Joseph’s clinging to his celestial marching orders like a security blanket, and Jacob’s just waiting for the next shoe to drop.

And drop it does.

Sweet merciful _fuck_ does it drop.

It drops with several hundred tons of concrete, rebar, and symbolism.

He gets a bad feeling when Faith calls up – giddy and giggling that she’d found the Deputy, that she’d brought her into The Bliss, that the Deputy had _willingly_ ( _that’s really not what that word means, Faith_ ) taken the first step towards Eden’s Gate, following the now well in hand Marshal Burke ( _pathetic_ ) in the Leap of Faith. It won’t be long now, Faith giggles, before the Deputy gives herself wholeheartedly over to them.

There’s a long, pained pause. Then – as Jacob is fighting the very powerful urge to start beating his head against the table – Joseph speaks up, very slowly and very calmly asking for confirmation that Faith is saying she’d _had_ the Deputy _in custody_ , had her _pacified_ and compliant with the Bliss, and had then _intentionally **let her go**_.

Faith had been trying – _failing_ – to explain herself, excuses intercut by Joseph’s pointedly calm directions to send people to find the Deputy and _bring her back **now** Faith_, when they hear the sound of RPG hitting concrete.

And by “they” he means “all of Hope County, probably.”

Jacob’s on his feet within seconds, making his way to MTAC. It takes him a minute, which means that he makes it in front of a monitor just in time to see his little brother’s giant stone head topple off and crash against the ground in an explosion of dust and concrete shrapnel.

It occurs to Jacob, as the junior deputy blows Joseph’s statue to pieces, that the whole situation has gotten out of hand.

Also that he’s going to have a _bitch_ of a time not saying “I told you so.”

Actually he might just indulge himself, just this once. Because up until this point the whole Deputy situation has been undeniably bad, but it has also been manageable. After all outposts can be retaken, prisoners can be recaptured and used to replace personnel, stores can be restocked, and lesser constructs and shrines can be rebuilt. Hell, even the destruction of John’s sign was more an inconvenience than anything else – a childish middle finger flipped in his direction _personally_ , rather than any real blow against the Project.

But this? This is _bad_.

There was a _reason_ Jacob hadn’t wanted the statue built in the first place, and it wasn’t just because the very thought of a hundred foot tall statue of his brother (looking all serene and otherworldly) had made him _cringe_. No, Jacob hadn’t wanted the statue for the _exact_ reason he’d recommended John have the Mausoleums at Lamb of God destroyed – because landmarks and icons and significant sites are very physical receptacles of morale. Because you can spend days and weeks and months and years starving people, scaring them, beating them into the dirt, and all they’ll do is dig their heels in and bare their teeth and come at you all the harder. But pick up a sledge hammer and bring down a monument? Well then you’ve just broken the _spirit_ of your enemies, built up your own people, and all it took you was a few minutes and a little elbow grease.

Or, apparently, a few minutes and some RPG rounds.

And _of course_ the _size_ of the damn statue means that fucking _everyone_ in Hope County is – or very soon will be – aware of its destruction. 

It’s very probably the worst blow the Project’s suffered to date; an assault not just on them, but a very pointed blow against _The Father_. The Deputy’s gone to great lengths to destroy _Joseph’s_ image, and the message is ringing out loud and clear throughout Hope County. Hell, the dust’s barely settled – _his_ people still reeling and devastated over the loss, so Jacob’s got no clue how hard the other faithful will take it – when they start getting reports of attacks all across the Whitetail Mountains, the Resistance taking the Deputy’s example and _running_ with it.

So yeah. Jacob may just have to indulge his petty side because he’d _fucking told them_.

The Deputy’s too damn dangerous to live. And _somehow_ he’s going to have to get that point across to his little brother.

That night, alone with Joseph, Jacob’s very much not hopeful that he’ll be able to manage it.

Oh Joseph’s _pissed_ alright – albeit about the _wrong_ thing, as usual ( _you’ve got **other** books, Joe, you write more all the damn time, there’s not even any way for anyone to prove that’s what she burned, and **why** do you care so much about her ‘rejecting your words’ anyway?!_) – but…

But he’s still clinging to his Voice.

To his _faith_.

To the damned delusions that are going to get him _killed_ if Jacob looks the other way for more than a minute.

It fucking _hurts_. Watching Joe struggle and self-flagellate, watching him drowning in shame over his _doubt_. Jacob can _see_ the confusion in his little brother – his soulmate, his guide, his Joseph – as he _tries_ so damned hard; tries to listen and obey, tries to forgive, tries to see _why_ , why _this_ woman in all of Hope County apparently _has_ to be saved, when every logical argument _demands_ her death. Joseph’s reached the point where he doesn’t _want_ to forgive the Deputy, doesn’t _want_ her to be blessed with salvation and redemption. Because he can see the damage she’s done, the souls she’s led astray, the destruction that follows in her wake like she’s a one-woman natural disaster, and because he’s smart enough to see that – if she gets the _slightest_ chance – she’ll happily bring that destruction down on the three of them.

 _But_.

But the Voice demands it. But God has spoken. But they must have _fucking_ faith. And so Joseph will beat himself bloody trying to save the Deputy, and Jacob’s so damned scared that he won’t get the chance to be rejected by his brothers for breaking away and doing what’s necessary to save their lives.

And, as always, Joe must see that in his eyes. Because just as he’s made up his mind to settle things, to go out and _find_ the meddlesome little girl and _finish_ things, Joseph pins him in place with a look.

And then there’s hands taking his gently.

And then there’s lips brushing against his skin.

And then there’s his Joe looking up into his eyes and asking him to _trust_ – to trust in _Joseph_ if he can’t trust the Voice.

And then all Jacob can do is crumble, let his head drop, shiver as all the anger and intent drains out of him, nod his head mutely and wait for the press of foreheads, the breathless sigh of relief and joy, and the heartbreakingly beautiful recitation of _**“I love you, Jacob”**_ sweeping over him, sinking into the skin of his left hand and wrist and warming him through to the core.

And then Joseph pulls away from him, returns to his flock, and Jacob goes back to the Whitetail Mountains and _waits_.

##############

He doesn’t have to wait long.

He’s working through some residual behavioral problems with Peaches – boy will never make an even half-way decent soldier, but there’s something to be said for keeping a well-trained house pet around – when the call comes through that they’ve lost Park Ranger Station.

Jacob doesn’t bother to ask _who_ was involved, just snarls under his breath and stalks away to take his anger out on something he _doesn’t_ mind damaging permanently, leaving Peaches whimpering and cringing away in his kennel (and wouldn't his life be so much easier if the former deputy had anything _useful_ on his one-time coworker – Jacob’d been very briefly excited when he realized he had a resource for learning about his enemy, but that’s since been dashed to hell, despite Nancy’s misguided insistence that the two had been friends; as sure as their mole had been, by this point Jacob believes the boy’s insistence that they’d barely known each other – little bitch just isn’t strong enough to hold out for as long and through as much as he’d done without giving _something_ away).

In the end Jacob runs a few dozen training courses, personally culling the ones that are too weak to bother with anymore, and sets some of his Chosen out to scout for the Deputy.

They find her a few days later – perched cliffside and sniping Jacob’s helicopters out of the sky.

And, with that, Jacob has had _enough_.

She may have escaped John. She may have escaped Faith. But the junior deputy will _not_ escape Jacob.

He lifts the radio to his lips, a feral grin slowly crossing his features as he stares at the girl – unconcerned and oblivious, like a bored coed out for an afternoon stroll – on the monitor, and flicks it on. _“There’s someone out there… pretending to be a soldier.”_

##############

**_Fucking wingsuit._ **

##############

Nearly two weeks pass before there’s another significant development. Which mostly just means that Jacob gets to spend two weeks seething, stewing over the Deputy’s escape and the fallout there of, snarling at the constant stream of reports coming in from Henbane, and putting up with John’s smug “oh _dear_ , did someone turn out to be harder to catch than someone else thought she’d be, but I thought you were going to _handle_ this and _show us how it’s done_ ” looks and insinuations.

And _really_ , if he didn’t _love_ the little bastard _so **fucking** much_…

Anyway.

Tensions have risen all across Hope County, yet again. The faithful don’t quite seem to know what to do with themselves, seem to be waiting for someone – the Deputy, the Resistance, The Father, one of the Heralds, God Almighty Himself – to smite them where they stand for their failings, and are paranoid and vigilant beyond what even Jacob thought they could accomplish. The Resistance, despite showing obvious signs of being highly motivated by the Deputy’s latest escape, are responding to that step-up in Eden’s Gate’s game and seem to be waiting for the Seeds to make some kind of move in retaliation. And as for Eden’s Gate leadership…

Nothing’s that different for their family, not really. John’s behavior hasn’t changed since the baptism – he’s still very pissed, still very motivated to bring the Deputy to heel with _extreme_ prejudice, and still very frustrated that that’s not happening. Likewise Joseph, who is still very obviously – to Jacob, at least – struggling with his own human desires to cut out the cancer that’s infecting his garden-to-be, and is still beating the need to _not_ do that into everyone’s heads. And Jacob, of course, still needs/wants the girl _dead_.

Faith, however, is another story.

Faith is practically _beside_ herself, trying to hold on as her territory gets slowly picked apart by the Deputy and her people. And that’s probably wise because Joseph is _pissed_ – in the quiet, gentle, wisps of smoke before the firestorm way that he has – by her continued failures, by her inability to bring the Deputy in, by the lingering memory that Faith’d _had_ her and _let her go_. And between the anger and her failures and Joseph’s continued insistence that the Deputy _must_ be brought into Eden’s Gate, Jacob can see that Faith is growing increasingly _terrified_. On the one hand, Jacob supposes he can understand the fear, hell, they’re _all_ confused about why they apparently need the Deputy; on the other hand, though, he just can’t quite buy that it’s because she’s meant to be the _new_ Faith. For one thing, Joseph’s been pretty well sold on the one they’ve got _now_ , _likes_ the one they’ve got now, and has felt that way for nearly their entire stay in Hope County. And, for another thing, well… Jacob just can even _begin_ to see the woman who’s been killing and destroying all across the map – the little one woman whirlwind of Wrath – stepping into Faith’s pretty lack of shoes. But, whatever it is that _he_ thinks, Faith seems to be increasingly certain that her days in the Project are numbered and is acting accordingly – throwing herself into her work like a madwoman, beating herself bloody to prove herself to Joseph. It’s getting so bad that _Jacob_ almost feels for her.

All those nerves and feelings build up continuously, swelling up like water behind a dam, and anyone with half a brain can tell that soon _something’s_ going to happen.

Jacob’s honestly not expecting the outcome that eventually _does_ happen.

They’re walking to Joseph’s house together – him and John – for another routine meeting – debrief, reassurance, _pointed_ reminders, dinner if the faithful can manage to get through one evening without someone holding their hands – when the doors to the quaint, modest little house – or as modest as Joseph could haggle John down to, anyway – fly open and Faith comes stumbling out, skin pale and blotchy, weeping brokenly, staggering off towards what’s probably her escort.

The brothers freeze, staring after her in stunned confusion.

Then something shatters inside the house, and suddenly they’re both crashing through the doors.

They find Joseph inside, in the kitchen, snarling and shuddering in rage – in _Wrath_ – like a feral animal, standing amidst a field of shattered glass and ceramic.

John gasps, starts towards him in horror, and is just barely getting out the first syllable of their soulmate’s name when Joseph – hands fisted in his hair and not even looking at them – _snarls_ , _“Get out!”_

The words lash out, burning a trail of rage into Jacob’s skin, like somebody’s stabbing a red hot knife into him over and over again. Johnny must feel the same thing too, because his baby brother recoils with a sharp cry, right hand clapping down hard on the Words around his left hand and wrist, tears pricking up into his big blue eyes before Jacob can manage to get to him, pulling Johnny in close and putting one hand on his own Words, squeezing the back of his neck comfortingly. _“Joseph.”_

“I _said_ get ou-”

“Joe!”

And now it’s their brother’s turn to flinch, Jacob’s indignation and concern washing over him and cutting through the haze of rage. Joseph’s eyes are on them in an instant – wide and horrified and unguarded without his glasses and otherworldly serenity. And then he’s moving, dashing across the kitchen and throwing his arms around Johnny, pressing their foreheads together and cooing apologies and comforts and confirmations of his love and his adoration and he’s sorry, so sorry, he hadn’t meant to, hadn’t realized it was them, and Johnny’s just starting to calm down as Joe takes their hands in his and starts pressing kisses against their skin between whimpered apologies.

John’s curling into Joseph now, free hand pressed against his chest as he nuzzles against the side of his head, and Jacob sighs wearily as he leans his own head in, taking his hand away from John with one final squeeze and clasping Joe’s neck instead. “What happened?”

He feels Joseph shudder under his grasp, a low hiss of anger and frustration curling up into the air like a plume of smoke. “The Deputy…”

Jacob groans, fingers tensing a little before he catches himself, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight against the headache that’s suddenly blooming behind them.

“I had her, Jacob.” Joseph sounds so _tired_ , so defeated, and it cuts into him all over again. “Faith brought her to me, and for a moment I had her.”

He huffs out a rough laugh, running his hand up and down Joseph’s neck a little. “Welcome to the club.”

Joseph goes still under his hands. Then, sighing, he pulls back from them, far enough that he can meet their eyes. “No. Jacob. You don’t understand.” And there it is again – that otherworldly _fire_ that burns away in Joseph’s eyes, the light that draws in people like moths, that pours into his sermons and wins over hearts and minds and souls, that makes Joseph so much _more_ than anyone else. The fire that comes when Joseph is walking side-by-side with his Voice. The fire that makes all the difference between Father Joseph and his Joe. “ _I. Had. Her._ ” The words are something Biblical, so much meaning and power and heartbreak packed behind them that Jacob and John both shiver at hearing them. “Her _heart_ , and her _mind_ , and her _spirit_ turned _towards_ me, and she was _ready_. Ready for _redemption_ and _repentance_. Ready for me to _save her_.” Joseph’s trembling, eyes going distant as memories play before them. “I _spoke_ to her, took her in my hands, and when she _looked_ at me…” He trails off with a soft, shivering sigh, eyes falling closed and lips tilting upwards in a smile of utter peace and joy and _relief_. When he speaks again his tone is full to brimming with wonder, “I’ve never seen longing that profound.” Those perfect eyes open again, lit up almost painfully bright with divine light, and lock on to them. “I _had_ her.”

For a moment Joseph’s face is beatific, his expression one of pure joy, the way it is when something’s happened to ease his doubts – not an answer, not a solution, but a gentle nudge that pushes him back from the edge. And then, slowly, all that beauty starts to fade, shadows of the earlier pain and anger and weariness creeping back in. “And then _just_ as I…” Joseph’s lips curl back abruptly, “Whitehorse.” He’s snarling again now, shaking with barely restrained anger, “And the rest of his… _heretics_. She heard them, like _jackals_ ,” the words are coming out faster, spit out with the disgust that only comes when someone’s pushed Joseph too far, expended the limits of even _his_ mercy and forgiveness, “clawing and baying and slavering at the gates, spilling their poison into the air and into her mind and her heart, and all I could do was _watch_ as that lost, longing child…” and then Joseph shudders again, anger bleeding off into sorrow and pain and exhaustion, his empathy, his need to rescue and heal and save the broken – his heartbreak when something or someone _stops_ him from that – drowning everything else out and leaving him so worn, “that innocent little lamb,” there’s tears in Joseph’s eyes – tears for _her_ , for _The Deputy_ , “was swallowed back up, pulled back into all the sin and the lies of those…” Joseph’s head drops, eyes staring blankly down at his hands. “I was so _close_.” His hands curl slowly into fists, eyes rising up to them, filled with an ocean of guilt and shame. “I had her.”

John heaves out a sound – somewhere between a whimper and a cry – and makes like he’s going to rush over to Joseph.

Jacob beats him to the punch, crossing his arms over his chest with a low, exasperated sigh, and drawls out, “In the Bliss.”

Blue eyes lock with his, and he can feel the excuses and the explanations and the sermon brewing behind them, “Jacob –”

“No, no, of _course_.” He is going to _kill_ Faith for allowing the Deputy anywhere _near_ Joseph. “She was too drugged out of her mind to try to murder you, so _obviously_ she’ll be signing on with the Project before the week’s out, good to know.” He usually tries to censure himself, to not challenge Joseph or belittle him at any time – even when he’s being _ridiculous_ – and _especially_ not when John’s around to see it. But now? Now is _not_ the time for being tactful, because Joseph’s going to get himself _killed_. Because there’s too much irrational hope and faith in his brother’s eyes, all geared up to run out and save someone who doesn’t deserve it and will probably just try and murder him for his kindness. And, scariest of all, because there’s… _something_ hiding away in Joseph’s eyes. Something Jacob honestly never thought he’d see in _this_ particular brother, and something that he’s terrified is going to make his job _impossible_. So _fuck it_. Jacob’s going for broke, and neither Joseph’s big sad eyes or John’s presence are going to stop him. “Would you like me to find a bunk for her up in the Whitetail Mountains, or will she be staying with John? Or are you putting her up here?” He sweeps an arm out, uncharacteristically dramatic now that he’s on a roll, “In one of the spare bedrooms, maybe?” And then, because he can’t quite manage to stop himself when he gets this worked up, he locks eyes with Joseph and lets that sickly little _fear_ out into the air. “Or in the master?”

“Jacob!”

Joseph doesn’t give any indication of hearing John’s scandalized yelp, just stares back at Jacob. And his expression is holding strong, all serenity and patience, but Jacob can see the faintest flush – of embarrassment? At being caught and called out? Of religious shame? Or something else entirely? _That_ part he can’t work out – coloring his cheeks. “Why is it so hard for you to have faith in this?” Joseph looks so damned _sympathetic_ , and it cuts at him almost as badly as, “To trust me?”

“I _do_ trust you.” Because he does. Really. More than he’s ever trusted anyone in his life. Has since the day that Joe was born and Jacob’s developing mind realized that he was the most important thing in all the world. Has all the more since the day that Johnny was born and brought them even closer together. Has since the day that his little brothers found him rotting away in that shelter, lifted him up, _saved him_ , and brought him back into the light. _But._ “But I also _know_ you. And you get these…” Jacob doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to make his stand on this hill, doesn’t want to broach _this_ subject – the one that lays still and quite like an untouched minefield between them every damn day – for _anything_ , but _damn it_ he doesn’t really have a choice anymore. “You get these _prophecies_ and think that’s an end to it. That the world’s just going to re-order itself to make things work for you, and _fine_ ,” he’s nearly shouting now, has to take a second to _breathe_ , to get himself back under some kind of control before forging ahead, “sometimes it _does_.” And, honestly, that’s the scariest part of everything. The fact that – so very often – Joseph will stare down reality and make _it_ blink. There are moments when Jacob watches his little brother and just gets really fucking _scared_ , because he can’t think of a single _rational_ reason for how he does what he does and – yeah, _fine_ – Jacob could actually believe (if he still had any belief left) that his brother is the sort of person who’d get picked for some divine purpose, but he also can’t begin to fathom how any greater power could _possibly_ settle its gaze on any group that includes _him_. It just doesn’t make sense, and it scares the hell out of him, and worst of all... “But _sometimes_ ,” sometimes… “it _doesn’t_.” Those aren’t good days. Jacob doesn’t like to think about those days. “And all this? With the Deputy?” Jacob’s honestly not sure he can handle many more of those days. And he just _knows_ that, if he can’t stop Joseph soon, then that’s all they’re headed for. Jacob can feel the fear, and the pain, and the exhaustion rising up in his chest, his strength bleeding off as he stares down into Joseph’s eyes, _pleading_. “This is _not_ going to play out the way you think it will.”

He’s just so scared.

And in the face of all that, in the face of his open honesty and fear, Joseph just stares back up at him – looking so sad and patient. Looking like _Jacob’s_ the one who’s walking the path towards his own destruction. “You weren’t there, Jacob.” His guiding light sounds so damn sad for that, like he thinks there’s anything that could change Jacob’s mind on this subject. “You didn’t see her. She was so…” That last word hangs in the air, like the blade of a guillotine in Jacob’s mind, the thought left incomplete as Joseph’s eyes go distant again. And then, just as he’s starting to wonder if Joseph’s getting pulled into another vision… he sees it. Sees Joseph’s skin flush, ever so slightly. Sees his pupils dilate inside distant, glassy eyes. Sees his lips quirk upward, dreamily. Sees the faintest tremble that runs through his skin and the way his tongue dips out, just for a second, over his lower lip – a little tell that’s obnoxiously familiar on _John_ but downright _mindboggling_ on Joseph.

He sees it all in a fraction of a second, and it’s like a bucket of cold water and punch to the gut and all those things because for _fucks **sake**_ , he’s fucking _right_.

“Joseph –”

Eyes lit up with religious fire burn into him, the sheer _conviction_ in Joseph’s voice dizzying. “She _belongs_ with us, Jacob. This is more than a matter of pragmatism, or morale, or…” And it’s Joseph The Father, not the man or the brother or the soulmate, who stands firm in the ruined kitchen with prophecy dripping from his lips, all the doubt and guilty anger and human need for vengeance washed away with this new conviction, preaching at him and John like they’re the rank and file sheep of his damned flock. “She is a _gift_. Something precious and special that God has sent for _us_.” And there, in the midst of his private little sermon, Jacob sees it again – the flicker of raw _desire_ that sweeps through Joseph, painfully obvious despite his insistence of, “And, no, I _don’t_ yet know _why_. I only know that we just need to –”

Oh, enough is e-fucking- _nough_.

Jacob slams a hand down on the table, bares his teeth up at his brother, and _snarls_ out, “ _Damn it_ Joseph, stop acting like there’s anything fucking _divine_ about all this!” Joseph’s eyes – already blown wide from the shock of Jacob’s interruption – start to narrow in the beginnings of frustration, his lips parting to continue his sermon. Jacob cuts him off. “ _No_. No, I am _not_ going to stand around and let you get yourself killed trying to save this lunatic, just because you’re _deprived_ and she batted her eyelashes at you.” The frustration – the _fear_ – inside him is building up, bubbling up to the surface, and he spins away, teeth gritting so hard it hurts as he tries to get himself back under control, trying to ignore the waves of disapproval and disappointment surging of Joseph, the look of horror and shock on John’s face, and still can’t manage to stop the rush of, “I am not going to watch you die because you think some _‘Voice’_ has sent us a shiny new toy.”

The words hang in the air for a moment. John’s cringing, trembling lightly, wide eyes darting frantically between them. And Joseph…

“You still don’t believe.” Joe’s clawing his way back through The Father, looking so damn sad and tired and _hurt_ that it’s all Jacob can do to not cave, to bow his head and apologize, to say whatever it’ll take to make things better, to make his brother happy again. He wants to look away, to keep his head, but Joseph’s eyes have got him trapped, are pulling him down into pools of deep blue pain. “After all this time…” And then, just as Jacob’s heart is going cold with guilt and remorse, just as his head’s starting to bow, Joseph’s eyes go _hard_. “You don’t believe, because you don’t _want_ to believe.” Joseph’s shaking, all the hurt boiling and spilling out, bringing a flood of frustration and anger with it, his voice shedding all its otherworldly serenity as it climbs higher and higher in righteous indignation until he’s nearly _screaming_ , “What _comfort_ does this willful purgation and blindness bring you that _we_ can’t?!” Those last words, raw and agonized and ripping Jacob apart, clawing into his skin and tearing its way down into his soul, hang in the stillness. Standing before him, Joseph’s panting, his body shaking as he stares up at Jacob accusingly, suddenly looking so very human in his injured rage, as though he can peer straight down into the depths of Jacob’s tattered soul and pull out a satisfactory answer.

And just like that, Jacob feels all his own anger start to build up again.

Joseph sees that– of _course_ he does, Joseph _always_ sees the faults, the flaws, the failings, all the little foibles and elements of _humanity_ that have no place in his Eden – and his eyes go cold and inhuman as The Father comes back to play. “Perhaps if you hadn’t abandoned your own faith, left it buried in the desert sands, you might _finally_ know some _peace_.” And then, just like that, like he _hasn’t_ dug his claws into the still festering wounds inside of Jacob, like _Jacob’s_ the one who’s being _fucking stupid_ and self-destructive, that sick surge of pity comes rushing back into his gaze, his voice going so tired and sad and understanding as he sighs up at Jacob, “You might _understand_ this.”

Joseph stares at him, heartbroken and disappointed and so _fucking_ patient.

John stares at them both, trembling and pale and wrapping his arms around himself as his eyes dart back and forth.

And Jacob?

Jacob sees _red_.

Lips pulling back from his teeth, Jacob squares back his shoulders and stares Joseph down – eyes narrowing sharply and voice going deathly low. “Yeah, well let me tell you something, _Father_.” For once he doesn’t bother hiding his disdain for that little title of Joseph’s, the little bit of pageantry that’s just one more thing pulling Jacob’s soulmate _away_ from him. His brother’s eyes narrow right back at the disrespect, and that just spurs him on, stokes the fires of anger inside him, makes him _hungry_ for more pain and blood and _damn it_ a part of him is _screaming_ to stop before he goes too far but he _can’t_. Can’t because he’s pissed, and because he’s _hurt_ , and because he’s so _fucking scared_ – because he can’t stop imagining The Deputy ripping his little brother apart, given free license to snuff out his precious light because Joseph’s too kind, too forgiving, too trusting in his Voice and too, too damn _blind_ to realize that – “I _understand_ that you wouldn’t be trying so damn _hard_ to save this girl, no matter _what_ your ‘Voice,’” he spits the word out, anger building up into a fever pitch until his words are coming out in a flood of _Wrath_ , “says if she didn’t look pretty and fertile enough to serve as a replacement for that picture on your arm!”

He knows it’s a mistake the moment he says it.

His brothers freeze, stare up at him in shock and disbelief. Joseph’s eyes are wide and his jaws dropped, pale and shuddering like Jacob’s hit him, his hand suddenly clasped protectively over the image on his left arm. John’s staring at him aghast, not seeming to understand how and why Jacob went there, crossed the bridge they never cross, using _her_ – the _first_ Faith, the _real_ Faith, the one that he and Johnny never met and who Joe’s never stopped mourning – to _hurt_ Joseph like that.

Jacob stares at his brothers, whole body gone suddenly cold and still, and is pretty damn sure he’s about to throw up.

The words flood up from his lungs, flaying his throat open and crowding into his mouth. He can practically _taste_ them – _I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, I wasn’t going to say that, I don’t know **why** I said that, Joseph, Joseph I’m… I didn’t… **fuck** , Joe I’m sorry, I’m so, so **sorry** , please, please don’t… I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m **sorry**_ – like blood and ash on his tongue, and he’s _trying_ to get them out but he _can’t_ and –

John stares up at him like he’s a stranger, corpse pale and horrified as he chokes “Jacob…” from out of a strangled throat.

And then, just as Jacob’s pretty sure his baby brother’s about to start crying – _**this** is why he doesn’t fight with Joseph when Johnny’s around, **fuck** , what was he **thinking** , he **knows** he can’t keep himself under control when this happens and Johnny shouldn’t have to see them do this shit, shouldn’t ever have to look like that, not ever and **especially** not because of Jacob, Jacob’s supposed to **protect** him_ – Joseph breaks the silence. Stares up at Jacob, jaw clenched and eyes wet, but holding on to the last scraps of The Father’s mantle like his life depends on it. “I will pray for you, Jacob.” The words are like broken glass, like shrapnel, like phosphorous and napalm sinking into his skin, ripping him apart and burning him from the inside out with the sheer agony and – even worse, so, so much worse – the _forgiveness_ wrapped around them. And, as always, Joseph’s willingness to forgive, to absolve and pardon and offer the hand of redemption, even in the very moment of torment, even when Jacob’s just thrust his bestial, destroying hands into the very heart of Joseph’s pain and suffering and _squeezed_ , cuts through all the armor and the walls that Jacob’s built up around himself and _hurts_. “Pray that you may find some peace from the _Pride_ and the _Wrath_ that haunt you.”

The raw pain in Joseph’s voice barely touches him through all the shame and the guilt and the storm of self-loathing that’s splitting Jacob open from inside. He wants to take it back. Wants to repent. Wants to fall down at Joseph’s feet and _beg_ for his soulmate’s forgiveness. Wants to break down for once, be _weak_ , and let it all spill out into the air, let himself fall apart and let his brothers pick up the pieces, kiss and sooth it all away and put him back together. He’s just so fucking tired. He knows that all he has to do is show the _slightest_ hint and his brothers will fall over themselves to make it all better. He _wants_ them to make it all better.

But.

But Jacob’s their protector.

But Jacob’s their shield.

But Jacob’s the one who has to be strong.

But Jacob’s the one who has to do whatever it takes, no matter who it hurts, to keep his brothers – his soulmates, his angels, his Joe and his Johnny – safe and alive.

So Jacob pulls away, wills his heart to turn to stone, and walks to the door. He stops for a moment when he hits it, turning back to stare at Joseph as levelly as he can. “And I’ll pray,” he forces out, so damn tired and wrecked that the words _hurt_ to say, “that you wake the fuck up and don’t get yourself killed trying to save a rabid dog.”

And then Jacob forces himself to walk away from them.

He’s got work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Background violence and torture/brainwashing, allusions of self-harm, self-hatred, seriously problematic relationships, and general unhealthy coping mechanisms.
> 
> _In which Jacob Seed is a horrible person, and also 120% DONE with everyone and everything in Hope County. Featuring Robin Baird's "f*** you and your Heralds and the Voice you rode in on" tour, from the perspective of Herald Ginger Wolfman. Also featuring: Family - the people who know **exactly** what buttons to push to hurt you as badly as possible. Seriously, **damn** boys, don't bother pulling your punches there. Yeesh. O.O_
> 
> _Welp, here's hoping you enjoyed this little diversion (and aren't planning to storm the Bastille in response to me cling-hanging you ^-^), and I'll see y'all next Friday!_
> 
>  
> 
> _Title comes from "Marked Man" by Mieka Pauley. Because **yikes** Jacob, either get a hobby (that doesn't involve knives, guns, or wolves) or get some ice on that murder-boner._


	8. Those Ocean Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _… Where were we? Oh! Right._
> 
> _Tick... tick... tick..._

Robin comes back to consciousness slowly, head fuzzy and body heavy. It takes a ridiculous amount of effort to get her eyes open, and even longer to get them to focus on anything.

Once they do she immediately regrets it.

Apparently John’s got an actual torture chamber. Because of _course_ he does, why _wouldn’t_ he? And Robin’s currently tied to a chair in it, because see above.

If all this really does turn out to be the will of the Monkey god or whatever, Robin’s going to have _words_ with the simian bastard.

Slowly, shakily, her fingers clench on the arms of the chair, the Bliss wearing off and the terror brewing, and she tries to fight that back – _get your shit **together** girl, this isn’t the time to panic_ – and take stock of her situation. Her wrists are – mercifully – still wrapped up and she’s still dressed, so presumably her secret’s safe, but she knows the clock on that is running out _fast_. The ropes holding her to the chair are unreasonably secure – _figures the suggestive, bad-touchy bastard is good at tying people up_ – so the odds of slipping them or breaking free are more or less nonexistent. And, if she really is where she thinks she is, even if she somehow gets out of the chair she’s still stuck in the putrid heart of crazy town – population: a fuckton of particularly devoted Peggies – which is a situation she’s not sure she could get out of even _if_ her head wasn’t still fuzzy from Bliss. All of which means that she’s totally helpless, and utterly at the mercy of her psychotic, torture-loving soulmate, who’s going to be learning about that little connection _very_ soon.

On further reflection, maybe it _is_ the time to panic.

Something starts cutting through the rising fog of hysteria, her drugged up brain slowly coming to the realization that she’s not alone, that someone’s _screaming_ – muffled and terrified – across the way from her, and she forces her eyes to –

Oh fuck.

_**Joey.** _

Cold clarity and horror comes crashing down on Robin, the Bliss _evaporating_ from her system as she stares at her partner.

Joey’s tied to a chair directly across from her, screaming against the duct tape slapped over her mouth, bruised and bloodied and struggling desperately against her own restraints. Compared to some people she’s seen lately – including herself in the occasional mirror – the older deputy doesn’t look _terrible_ ; she doesn’t seem to be seriously injured, doesn’t look like she’s been starved or Blissed up, hell, she’s actually fairly _clean_ for someone who’s been held prisoner by a cult for the nearly four months. Looking at her, someone could almost think she’s holding up pretty well. But Robin… Robin looks at her partner in horror and has to fight back the urge to be violently ill.

Joey looks… _broken_.

It’d taken Joey a little time to warm up to _her_ , but Robin’d liked the older woman the moment they’d met. And they hadn’t gotten as close as Robin and Staci had, but they’d gotten pretty damn close in the short time Robin’d been in Hope County. Joey Hudson had been strong, confidant, fearless, in control, everything that Robin tried to be herself, and she did it so damn _casually_ , like it was as easy as breathing. She wasn’t like a lot of women in male-dominated fields – either screaming out her ‘I’m just as good as you’ rage from every pore or bending over backwards to be inoffensive and not rock the boat. No, she’d just been… she’d just _been_. She was a badass and a damn fine deputy who’d earned her position, who was the clear next in line once Whitehorse retired, who could handle anyone or anything that came at her, and she _knew_ it well enough that she didn’t feel like flaunting or defending it. She’d been calm and collected, never letting her temper or the strain or anything else get to her, push her to slip up and be anything but the best. She’d looked out for her younger deputies, but – aside from trying to shelter Robin from Eden’s Gate out of now confirmed to be very well deserved fear – had never coddled them; she’d known their potential and had driven or guided or teased them towards it, as the situation demanded. She’d looked after them, on the job and off it too, taking them out for drinks after a rough shift, helping Robin deal with a particularly recalcitrant nest of squirrels at her leased cabin, or just shooting the shit between calls at the station. Robin had looked up to her, respected her, been nearly giddy any time Joey’d been impressed or complementary towards her. Earl Whitehorse may have been – much like her grandfather – the kind of sheriff Robin’d wanted to be, but Joey Hudson was the kind of _woman_ she’d wanted to be.

Now though? Now all that’s stripped away, leaving a broken, cringing husk wearing the face of Robin’s friend.

It may just qualify as the most fucked up thing she’s seen since the cult took over.

Their eyes meet – Robin’s wide with horror and Joey’s burning with heartbreak and terror – and Robin can hear her pulse thundering in her ears, her heart beating like it’s going to rip out of her chest, and her lips part to say _something_ to her friend.

That’s when she hears the whistling.

Something clatters down on a table to the left of her, and she barely has the time to jump out of her skin before John’s crossing in front of her, freezing the blood in her veins and the breath in her lungs and locking her whole body down instantly.

He’s messing around with an old toolbox, moving things and dusting the table, acting like he’s out for a garden stroll with all the time in the world, and all the while whistling away, and then…

And then he’s looking at her. 

It’s the first time they’ve been face to face since the river. The first time they’ve ever been properly face to face when she’s been _sober_. And where Robin is pretty damn sure she’s about to have a complete panic attack or start puking up her guts, John seems to be _savoring_ the moment, staring at her with a small, pretty, sickly sweet smile.

“My parents,” he speaks abruptly, the words washing over her like the water at her baptism and socking her deliberately in the gut, “were the first ones to teach me about the Power of Yes.”

John purrs and drawls his way through the little speech, like he’s giving opening arguments in some court case, and Robin thinks she might break just from this. Joey whimpers and sobs through the whole spiel, her cries and John’s voice blending together, punctuated by distant screams and sobs and the -crack- of the staple gun pinning a slice of _human **skin**_ to a board, turning into some kind of symphony of madness that her soulmate’s conducting. Robin’s fingers dig into the chair beneath her, tears burning behind her eyes and she’s not even sure what _kind_ anymore, because her heart is _breaking_ for the poor little boy who never had a fucking _chance_ even as the rage inside her screams that she doesn’t want to _know_ any of this, doesn’t _want_ this reminder that her soulmates used to be _human_ , that they might still be if people actually _gave_ a shit, if the whole fucking world wasn’t so _fucking horrible_.

She’s fighting – _fighting, always fighting, fighting so hard, all she does is fight, she’s tired, so tired of fighting_ – to keep breathing, to keep from breaking down and _losing_ it when John moves, prowling her way like some giant, hungry cat, eyes sweeping over her as he toys with something in one hand. His other hand flicks out, turns on a lamp that’s pointed at her, and after the split second of pain fades she realizes what he’s got in his hand.

It’s a fucking tattoo gun.

A tiny, hysterical laugh gets trapped somewhere in her chest as the words _‘but Johnny, you’ve already ‘marked me up so pretty’_ flicker wildly through her mind.

The tattoo gun buzzes to life and Joey screams. John turns it off again and puts it down, turns back to her, and Robin _wants_ to scream. She wants to break free, wants to _run_ , wants to fight, wants to snap his neck, crush his throat, make him _stop talking_. She wants to close her eyes and never open them again. She wants it to be _over_.

But she can’t move.

All she can do is stare up at John as he moves closer, leans in, reaches out.

“I spent my entire life,” his fingers brush lightly against the neck of her shirt, “looking for more things to say _‘yes’_ to.”

The sound of ripping fabric fills the air and the world stops.

John stares, confused, at the place where his handwriting already sprawls over her skin, a small, bewildered breath passing between his lips. Joey’s gone deathly silent at the abrupt change in script. And Robin just stares blankly into John’s face. Motionless. Numb.

“You…?” John releases the torn halves of her shirt, fingertips hovering over the skin below her left collarbone tentatively. Then, slowly, he brushes against her skin, only to pull his hand back with a gasp when a current of electricity jolts through them both. His eyes fly back to hers, massively wide, the black of his pupils swallowing blue irises, mouth gaping and working soundlessly for a moment. Then, trembling, his fingers return to her skin and they _both_ gasp, shudder, and then he lets out another breath – half-snarled, small and confused and… and _hungry_ – as he runs the pads of his fingers over the Words he set onto her skin at the river. “You…” John’s voice is quiet and tremulous and she barely registers it, too focused on the way he painstakingly traces every ink black letter on her chest. Then, suddenly, he _groans_ out a low sound, raw and open, and his hands fly up and take hold of her face and for a moment she thinks _this is it_ , this is how she dies, bound and helpless in her soulmate’s hands, all ready for him to snap her neck or smother her or whatever he wants to do to the _filthy sinner_ he’s been shackled to, and –

“ _Where have you **been**_?!” 

John’s staring into her eyes again, tears flooding down his face as his hands – so impossibly, beautifully, horribly tender – cradle her face. Robin stares back, too bewildered by what’s happening to fully comprehend it. Kneeling at her feet, holding her like she’s something precious and fragile, weeping openly and staring into her eyes like looking away will kill him, John looks like another person – young, broken, desperate, like a little boy who’s just been _found_ after a night alone and scared in the woods. All the polish, the artifice has vanished, leaving the man in front of her raw and open and filled with such complete…

No.

No, no, no, no, _no_. 

_Please_ no.

The Words on her chest are burning, pulsing in time with her heartbeat, and that burn is slowly draining the fire of rage from her, leaving her small and hollow and _desperate_ the way she’s been each time they’ve put her into the Bliss. She’s drowning in the blue ocean of John’s eyes, in the impossible and horrifying _love_ that she sees there, directed solely at _her_.

No.

No, she… she _can’t_ …

Robin’s not sure she can fight this.

He gasps, a shuddery sobbing breath, hands trembling against her skin. “We’ve… we’ve been looking for you for _so **long**_. And we… we were starting to think that maybe…” He trails off brokenly, a lifetime of pain and loss and need swelling in those blue eyes before he drops his head, presses his forehead against the Words on her chest and _sobs_ once. Trembling, one hand falls from her face, curls around the back of her neck, drawing a shudder and low whimper from her when his fingers rub and stroke knowingly over the ashy Words hidden there. Then, with a heaving, quivering laugh, he looks back up at her and smiles again, face lighting up with _joy_ this time as his thumb strokes her cheek gently, so unbelievably happy and full of love and not at all like someone who was just about to start torturing her in his murder basement. The other hand falls – almost frantically – from her neck to the bandages on her left hand and wrist, struggling with the rope binding her to pull them free. “But you’re here. You’re _finally here._ ” He looks so damn _happy_ , stroking her face, pushing loose hair behind her ear, stroking her face again, and keeping their eyes locked together all the while, and some distant part of her mind manages to wonder if John even remembers who she is right now, what history has passed between them, what he’s been trying to do to her and what she’s done to him and his precious family and their precious little Project. “And now everything’s going to -” He’s tugged the bandages free and his eyes flicker briefly down to the revealed skin. And then he stops. Stops laughing, stops petting her face, stops moving entirely. It feels like hours before he moves again, fingers brushing against the Words on her left hand and wrist in slow confusion – more so than they had over his own Words – as his head twitches to the side, like a dog trying to comprehend something beyond its scope. “That’s what… the church?” He looks back up at her, eyes wide and brow furrowed, lips parted in pure confusion as he tries to make sense of what he’s seen. “You… you’ve known since…” He shivers slightly, eyes slowly filling with growing understanding and disbelief and muted horror. “But why…?”

Robin can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare back, wide eyed and pinned by John’s gaze, by the sense of terror that grows and grows as she watches the pieces start clicking into place. His eyes flick back down to Joseph’s long Resolved Words, then to the swath of ashy gray – the vaguest hint of letters that her mind _refuses_ to make sense of – on the inside of his own right forearm, then back up to her, and she sees something quietly _snap_ in his eyes as the whole picture comes together and – 

“Say something.”

She gasps, just once, at his voice – so even and controlled, almost calm, almost gentle… but hiding an entire abyss of hurt and hunger and desperation and fear, a seething mass of _need_ underneath the reasonable surface. It’s not a request. Not a plea. It’s a _demand._

It’s a demand for something that Robin _cannot_ give.

The hand on her face slides up to the back of her skull, fingers curling slowly into her hair as John rises back to his feet, eyes burning down into hers. “Say. It.” She stares up at him, vision starting to blur, lips pressed together, and suddenly his grip _twists_ , tearing her hair and wrenching her head back as he shoves his face forward and _screams_ , _**“Say it!”**_

Robin squeezes her burning eyes shut, _keens_ in pain and anguish, high and animalistic in the back of her throat, tries futilely to shake her head against his clawing grip, and clamps her teeth into her lower lip until the metallic tang of blood _floods_ into her mouth. And John…

 _ **“For Fucks Sake!”**_ He releases her with a violent shove – her head snapping wildly back and forth and scalp burning as he takes a handful of red hair away with him – and spins away from her, kicking out at the table next to her, sending it and everything on it flying, crashing and clattering across the room as he rages across the floor, flipping over the larger table there with a feral scream, hands fisting in his own hair for a split second before – snarling like a wild animal – he grabs something off the floor and turns back to Robin, teeth bared and eyes blazing with rage and madness and pain. “ _Fine then_ ,” he _snarls_ at her, lips pulling upwards into something that is _not_ a smile by any means as he gestures towards the other deputy with a… oh, oh _fuck_ , with a _knife_ , “maybe Deputy _Hudson_ has something she’d like to say!”

Joey’s been silent ever since John ripped her shirt open, too scared and confused by whatever the hell was going on to so much as twitch. All that changes now, eyes going wide and tears pouring out, struggling wildly against her restraints, desperate screams and sobs clawing at the gag as John stalks towards her with the knife, snarling and twitching and grinning with pure malice and madness.

Robin’s eyes fly wide, the world slowing before her as her mind races. _John knows – John’s going to hurt Joey – John wants her to – she **can’t** – she **has** to – Joey **needs** her – John **wants** her to – she **can’t** – she **has to** – she doesn’t have a **choice** – she’s **never** had a choice – John wants her to – John wants her - John **wants**_ **her** _– he **needs** her – she **needs** – she **needs** to say –_

 _ **“Yes!”**_ The _sound_ that claws its way out of her, flaying her throat and her mouth and her lips _raw_ , barely sounds human as it tears through the room, drawing John up abruptly a few inches from Joey. Some part of her screams to _stop_ , that it’s already bad _enough_ , but she just _can’t_ stop the Words that come flooding out of her, _**“Yes! Fucking yes, alright?! Yes!”**_ Her entire body shudders, convulses, and the burning in her eyes is cutting lines down her cheeks as all the life, all the fight _drains_ from her, leaving her slumped brokenly in the chair as she chokes out a final, _**Yes.”**_

John’s standing across the room, gasping and shaking violently from her still echoing screams, head lolling backwards, closed eyes raised to the sky. When Robin sobs out the last Word, he _shudders_ , breaths out a long, low _moan_ , and for a surreal moment part of Robin’s mind wonders if he just got off.

Robin shakes and shudders quietly, watching as he slowly lifts his right arm up, moaning again as he runs his fingers over the blackening Words. And there, just past John, she sees Joey Hudson, eyes going wide with blind _horror_ as she watches the Words Resolve on John’s skin, the older deputy’s eyes flying wildly over to Robin before she just starts screaming again, shaking her head violently as sobs wrack her body.

It’s all too much. 

Her head drops low as the first sob breaks free, and something nearby lets out a sharp gasp of horror. Suddenly John’s on his knees in front of her again, fingers carding through her hair and stroking her face, tenderly brushing away the tears as he coos at her, his face so impossibly gentle and full of concern. “Oh, oh sweetheart, don’t cry.” He sounds on the verge of tears himself, and the _compassion_ he’s forcing towards her draws out another broken sob. John whimpers softly, surges forward, nuzzles against her temple as he tries to calm her down. “It’s _alright_ , it’s alright, I’m not angry.” He pulls back again, cradling her face and brushing away tears with his thumbs as he stares into her eyes, the raw love in his eyes burning her from the inside out as he sighs, “I forgive you.”

And he’s kissing her.

John Seed’s lips are on hers, his tongue slipping past them and into her mouth, flicking and stroking and exploring all the corners of it before darting down to play with her own tongue, to try and encourage her to respond. She doesn’t, _can’t_ , is too frozen with shock and disbelief and too _numb_ to even twitch. In this, at least, he doesn’t seem to mind her hesitance, just keeps working his lips against hers desperately, keeps playing and exploring and teasing with his tongue, keeps kissing her like her lips hold life itself.

Finally, just as her lungs are starting to scream, John pulls back ever so slightly, close enough that their lips are still brushing, their gasping breathes mingling and their eyes locked together. Hysterically, she realizes that John’s crying too, tears of pure joy welling in his beautiful eyes and tracking down his face as he _stares_ at her, fingers tracing over her face lightly. “Oh you’re beautiful. Oh, sweetheart you’re… you’re _so_ …” He huffs out a broken little chuckle, like he’s so happy its hurting him. “You’re _perfect_.” The words cut deep into her, probing at wounds that have been raw and festering her entire life, and Pawpaw’s voice is tired and concerned in her mind as it sighs out ‘you always have to be careful what you wish for, Old Man.’ Robin tries to pull away, to at least _look_ away from him, but John’s grip on her is too firm, and all she accomplishes is drawing him in again, his lips brushing and pressing frantically against her skin. “Shhh, shhh, _please_ don’t cry. Everything going to be _alright_ now! You don’t have to be scared anymore,” his voice shudders a little as he purrs dreamily, “we’re going to take such good care of you.” John laughs again, bright and breathy, like something wonderful’s just occurred to him, and his hands and his voice are _vibrating_ with emotion as he leans in to press their foreheads together tenderly. “They’re going to be so happy.”

Robin’s entire body goes cold, John’s words crashing over like he’s plunged her back into the river.

She wishes John’d killed her back then.

She wishes she’d died back when the helicopter crashed.

She wishes she’d had the sense to end it all the moment she first read her Words and realized what they meant she was.

She’s going to throw up.

Thankfully – or maybe not, a damn _tiny_ portion of her mind whispers, ‘cause the look on John’s face if she puked directly into it _might_ just make all the hell of her life worthwhile – a low, broken, muffled _wail_ breaks through… whatever the hell is passing between John and Robin, drawing his attention away from her and over to where Joey is still struggling and screaming against her bonds.

A flicker of pure rage passes over his face, only to vanish when he feels her flinch under his hands. John instantly looks back at her, actually blushing and stammering a little in clear embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I… I didn’t think…” His mouth works soundlessly for a moment, the blush deepening. “Of course, this should be private. I’ll…” He pulls away from her, dropping his hands and standing so abruptly it’s obvious he’s _forcing_ himself to stop touching her, and practically speed walks over towards Joey. “I’ll just take Deputy Hudson back to her room,” he grabs the back of the older deputy’s chair, not seeming to notice Robin’s horrified lurch or Joey’s increased screams as he starts wheeling her forward, “and then…” Robin’s heart stops again, her stomach twisting violently, and she sobs out a little gasp of horror for her friend. John sees it all and skids to a stop, Joey’s chair nearly toppling over as he releases it abruptly to hold Robin’s face again, petting her hair convulsively as he croons, “No, no, sweetheart, don’t worry, don’t be scared. I’ll be _right_ back, I _promise_. I’ll be back as soon as I can and then…” His words cut off abruptly, choking in his throat as his eyes swim with tears of joy. Finally he heaves another, heartbreakingly joyful little laugh. “I’ll be right back.”

He leans in, crushes his lips against hers again, then pulls away to take the back of Joey’s chair and start moving, and all Robin can do is watch numbly as they leave – Joey _screaming_ something at her from under the gag, and they’re out of the room before Robin process that she was sobbing _“Run!”_ over and over and over and –

Her eyes dart mechanically around the room, skitter over and back to the distant stairwell, and something in her brain quietly goes -snap- and she’s moving, jolting slowly forward.

By the time she reaches the top of the stairs her whole body is soaked through with sweat from fear and exertion, and she doesn’t even think before flinging herself forward once more, rolling and crashing down the stairs.

There’s a little moment of despair when the fog clears and she realizes she survived the fall.

Every inch of her body’s throbbing in pain, she’s pretty sure that she’s fucked up one of her knees pretty good, and the head wound she got back at the trailer park has reopened – someone, it occurs a little hysterically, must’ve patched her up after that fight ( _and how nice of John, to see to her wounds before making some of his own_ ) – and there’s blood streaming down her face again. The bandages on her left hand and wrist are still hanging on to her, secured partway up her forearm, and she doesn’t allow herself the luxury of mourning that lost bit of security before she strips them off and repurposes them around her head.

No point in crying over spilled hopes and fucking dreams, after all.

There’s a pipe laying nearby, and Robin limps over to grab it, using it as a sort of cane until the adrenaline picks up enough for her to ignore her knee, for her legs to start getting the immediacy of the situation and start working – not properly, but sufficiently – again as she creeps through the underbelly of the bunker.

She wants to find Joey. Wants to get her _out_. Wants to bust down all the heavy doors and get _everyone_ out. But at the rate she’s going she’ll be _damn_ lucky to get _herself_ out.

In a completely unexpected display of good fortune, she barely even sees any cultists, and the few she does see are complacent enough in their own territory that they’re easily dealt with and hidden away. Which is a _damn_ good thing, because Robin’s not sure she could currently hold her own against a surly toddler in a fair fight.

And then, of course, just as she thinks she might be nearing the bunker’s entrance, her uncharacteristic luck runs right the hell out.

She’s crouched over a downed Peggy – dropping the guy behind a stack of crates – when she hears it, the sound so loud that – initially – she thinks it’s coming over the loudspeakers, echoing through the halls, drowning out the screams and sobs of the prisoners, and lancing directly into the Words on her chest.

John is _screaming_ – high and raw and broken, like a man who’s just seen his still beating heart ripped from his chest. The agony, the rage, the _loss_ that floods through his scream coils around her, lancing into her brain and setting hooks into her skin, pulling tight as every fiber of her being screams and sobs and begs for her to _go back_ to him. To fall down at his feet, to throw herself into his arms, to chase away all the betrayal and heartbreak, to swear that she didn’t mean it, promise that she’ll never leave again, to pour herself into the cracks in John Seed and let him flow into hers in turn so that _maybe_ something whole and _right_ can come out of everything that’s happened to them both.

She wants it so badly.

She turns on her heel, swallows down the pain, and _sprints_ towards the entrance.

Robin’s pelting up a stairway, swinging her pipe against the temple of a shocked Peggy, when John’s voice – so warped by emotion that it’s barely comprehensible – comes thundering over the speakers. He’s screaming, ranting hysterically, shrieking for them to _find her, stop her, bring her back, **don’t hurt her** , but bring. Her. **Back.**_

She clears the top of the stairs, nearly running face first into an equally startled cultist. She dodges back, narrowly evades his grasp, swings back with her pipe and only manages to clip him as a pair of arms grab her from behind, wrap around her torso and struggle to lift her off the ground as the first guy grapples for her pipe. Robin snarls, drives her head back into the one guy’s nose even as she kicks both feet into the other guy’s solar plexus, rocketing herself and her captor back against a wall, knocking the air out of him and setting her free to cave the first Peggy’s skull in. A claxon starts blaring, lights flashing around her, and she doesn’t bother with the guy gasping on the ground behind her, just _runs_ for it, bolts up another stairwell, ignores the burning in her lungs and the pounding of her heart and the way her knee is blazing with agony. More Peggies cross her path, and she leaves them dead or bleeding in her wake. And all the while John’s voice echoes through the bunker, screaming and sobbing and ranting, flaying into her skin as she runs, fights, sees a light up ahead and sprints for it, _throwing_ herself through the closing doors of the bunker to the screams and shouts of the Peggies still inside.

It’s deep twilight outside, the sun nearly gone beneath the horizon, and for the briefest moment the thought flickers through her mind that she might have an actually _chance_.

There’s a Peggy nearby, gaping at her in shock, and Robin dashes over, crushing her skull with a blow and yanking the pistol from her limp hands even as she makes a break for the gate. She flat out throws her pipe at a cultist trying to close the gate, spearing him through the stomach with the jagged end, and shoots one-two-three-four bullets off in rapid succession, catching one Peggy in the throat and another in the leg, and sending the others ducking for cover as she bolts towards the woods, John’s voice still screaming after her.

She’s not sure how long she runs, dodging between trees and over rocks, shooting out tires and brains and whatever else she can hit on her pursuers. She hurtles an old fallen log at one point, catches sight of a startled bear just in time to veer off the other way, and gets treated to a chorus of agonized screaming and enraged roaring as a Peggy fails to follow her example fast enough. Somehow, somewhere about two ziplines down the mountain, it hits her that she’s lost them – however briefly – and she casts her eyes about her desperately.

And that’s when she sees it.

An old beech tree, one of its branches split all the way to the trunk by a bolt of lightning some years ago, scars all over its bark from bucks and bears and teenagers. Pretty, in the wild, damaged nature sort of way. And, more importantly, the landmark she’s always looked for to find one of their favorite bunkers.

Robin skids, nearly plants her face into the ground, struggles to keep her feet under her as she changes direction, running past the tree to an innocuous arrangement of boulders, almost collapsing near them as her fingers scramble under an outcropping, finding the nearly invisible switch that triggers the hatch, throwing herself in and dragging the hatch down behind her before it’s even halfway open, then staggering through the darkened rooms, pulse and mind still racing wildly, to finally collapse properly at the far end of the bunker, tucked away into the cubical shower with her pistol pointed shakily towards the entrance.

She waits, shuddering and gasping painfully, terror and adrenaline warring with pain and rage, and all the while that little voice from John’s bunker keeps hissing in her ear – _go back, go back, go **back** , go back, **go back** , go back, go back, go –_

_“I **know** you can hear me.”_

Robin _stops_.

John’s voice – sweeping over her and into her skin, burning and freezing and clawing its way through her body – echoes through the bunker, raw and broken, and she starts shaking so hard it’s a miracle she doesn’t drop the gun.

He found her. Somehow… somehow he found her, followed her, and now everything’s even more _pointless_ than it already was because –

 _“Please just… just come back. **Please**. Please come back. I’m not mad, I… I promise. Just **please** sweetheart, come back where it’s safe. Come back to me.”_ He’s _sobbing_ , weeping openly as he begs, _“ **Please** come back.”_

The radio.

He’s speaking over the radio.

Robin’s body seizes once, something that’s partially a gasp and partially a sob and partially a retch convulsing her body violently as the realization sinks in.

John’s not there. He didn’t find her, he doesn’t know where she is.

She’s safe.

She’s alone.

_“Come back. Please.”_

She convulses again, tears flooding back into her eyes and bile rising in the back of her throat.

_“Please.”_

She curls her knees up to her chest, burying her head against them and pressing her hands against her ears.

_“Please.”_

Curled up, alone in the darkness but for her soulmate’s broken voice over the radio, Robin breaks down.

_“Please.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Implied Torture, Threats of Torture, Violence, Sexual Assault, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, and John Seed.
> 
> **_Boom._ **
> 
> _See y'all next Friday. ;)_
> 
>  
> 
> _Title comes from "Those Ocean Eyes" (QED) by Billie Eilish. Because John._


	9. Last Night I Dreamt I’d Forgotten My Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And now back to our heroine, who we left hiding in the shower of an abandoned bunker after aggressively nope-ing her way out of John’s Gate. As you do._

Once upon a time (back when the world had still made sense), during October of their sophomore year, Robin and her friends had gotten together for a scary movie marathon. The event had gotten completely derailed from the start, when Ramona made the mistake of picking up the _Halloween_ remake instead of the original. That had set off Tommy, who’d derided the thing as complete shit that spat on the good name of classical masterpiece and had no business existing in the first place. _That_ had then set off Carlos, who stood in its defense, admitted that – yeah it was schlocky and nowhere as good as the original, but it had its merits and shouldn’t just be discounted out of hand. They’d gone several rounds at it before Carlos got to his main defense – that being chased by a murderous, unstoppable, complete monster that either hates or feels apathy for you is nowhere _near_ as terrifying as being chased by a murderous, unstoppable, complete monster that _loves_ you. At the time Robin – who’s never been that into horror films (because _seriously_ , what’s the point in watching people who, by the fundamental rules of the genre, literally have no chance?) – had been content to sit back and watch _that_ show, munching popcorn with Big and Ramona and occasionally throwing out inflammatory comments whenever it seemed like the argument was winding down.

Now though? Now Robin’s thinking that she, and Tommy, and everyone else owe Carlos Flynn and the _Halloween_ remake some pretty big apologies. Because here and now, curled up in the shower of an abandoned bunker, listening to John Seed scream and sob and plead and rage over the radio in the next room, Robin’s more terrified than she’s been in her entire life.

Robin’s not entirely sure how long she sits there, on the floor of the shower in an abandoned prepper bunker, listening to John descend deeper and deeper into pain and madness over the radio. Long enough for the rage to burn away – for the adrenaline to burn out of her system and for her broken-again heart to go painfully numb – leaving her cold and empty and shaking, not even having the energy to hold up her head, let alone keep the gun trained on the door.

Finally - _finally_ \- the broadcast cuts off, right in the middle of John sobbing and pleading and sinking poisoned claws deeper and deeper into her, plunging the world into a heart-stopping, oppressive silence that stops her heart and turns the air in her lungs to ice.

She can still hear him - echoes of his voice whispering through the silence and in her mind, crawling over her skin and settling into the Words over her heart like cold fire.

She can still feel him - his fingers and eyes burning and clawing on her skin and his voice burrowing and creeping underneath it.

She can still _taste_ him.

There's a part of her that wants to start screaming until the echoed whispers are drowned out, wants to claw his phantom touch off her skin, wants to beat and cut and force a path into her chest and tear her broken little heart out of her chest. She wants to -

There's quite a few things she wants to do, actually. 

If only she could find the energy.

As it is she doesn't even have the energy to do more than twitch when the hatch to the bunker opens, flooding daylight all the way into the bathroom, much less care when she hears the telltale sounds of people climbing down the ladder.

A few seconds – or minutes, or hours, she’s not really sure – pass, the people taking their time as they work their way back, clearing each room of the bunker. Robin knows, on some distant level, that she _should_ care. That she should raise her gun, should be ready in case her visitors are Peggies – or, a cruel little voice supplies, some Resistance members who’ve heard John’s broadcasts and put two-and-two together and decided to use her to get some leverage or payback on the Seeds. But she just… doesn’t. Can’t.

She can’t see the point anymore.

Then a figure appears in the doorway, and suddenly Robin’s looking up at Grace.

The older woman stares at her for a moment. Then with a long, almost achingly relieved sigh, she holsters her own sidearm and moves towards Robin, Sharky’s voice calling out something from the other room.

Grace looks so happy to see her, so relieved, and for a split second Robin flashes back to that room, to _John’s_ face all lit up with those emotions, and a shudder of dull pain ripples through her body, her left hand jerking once, convulsively, and Grace pulls up short, expression going carefully blank.

“John knows.” She’s not sure why she even bothers saying it – her voice sounding all hollow and small and raw, and she should probably care about that too – because of fucking _course_ John knows. It’s so obvious – the exposed Words on her uncovered hand and wrist, the ones on her chest, not to mention the sheer _insanity_ that John’s been sobbing over the radio – that it's _painful_. She can see that in Grace’s eyes, the way her jaw tenses, just a little, as Robin admits what they all probably know. “H-he saw when…” Her left hand actually moves this time, waving shakily over her shirt, ripped down to her navel and barely hanging on her shoulders, and Grace flinches at the movement, her eyes going wide. “And then I –” She shudders, tasting acid in the back of her mouth as images of what’d happened – what he’d done, she’d done – flicker behind her eyes. She’s not sure why she’s speaking. Not really. She just… _has_ to. Has to explain what happened. Has to make it clear that she didn’t _want_ it to happen. Has to ask for forgiveness anyway. She kind of wishes she knew whether it was all directed at Grace or at herself.

“I spoke to him.”

The second the words leave her mouth she can feel tears on her cheeks again – and how funny, she’d’ve thought she’d long since dehydrated herself. She gets her hand to move, scrubbing away the tears with the back of her hand before letting it fall leadenly into her lap, and Grace – who’d begun slowly moving her way again – _freezes_.

“I… I had to.” She sounds so pathetic. “He was going to hurt Joey.” And all Robin had been able to do was give John _exactly_ what he wanted. And then she’d just left Joey behind with him, all alone and helpless when John got tired of screaming into the radio and decided to take out the rejection and abandonment on someone. “I had t-” Another sob wells up in her chest, claws its way up her throat, and – like someone’s pulling her little puppet strings – her hands fly up to her face, only registering as a kind of numb pressure where they press against her temples. “I had to.”

“I know, honey.” Grace takes a deep, shaky breath and crosses the last few feet towards her. “I know. And I am so, _so_ sorry.” There’s a raw edge to her words, and tears brimming up in her eyes, making everything so much worse. “Robin,” the soldier’s voice is almost impossibly soft as she kneels down, stretching out one comforting hand, “I need you to give me the gun now.”

They stare at each other for a moment – Grace hiding terror behind a mask of calm patience and Robin beyond confused.

Then, suddenly, her eyes fall down to her left hand.

She’s still holding the gun.

“I wasn-" The words catch in her throat, a cruel, lilting little voice in her head singing _oh you silly little girl, don’t you try and lie to Grace._

“I know, honey.” The repeated words are a bizarre juxtaposition of mechanical and tender, like the only way Grace force herself to stay calm and collected – and, probably, keep _Robin_ the same – is by clinging to some kind of script with all her might. She manages to force a smile, hand still extended. “But just… let me see it, alright?”

Robin just stares at her, the gun cold and heavy in her grasp.

Then the deputy reaches out, trembling violently, and places it into Grace’s outstretched hand.

Grace practically chucks the gun into the sink, which feels a little dramatic, but then she’s turning back to Robin, all relieved and concerned and emotional and it’s a little hard to focus on anything after that. And then the older woman gets her to her feet, trembling and wobbly like a newborn foal, one arm wrapping around her to help her walk into the other room.

Sharky’s waiting for them, pacing furiously and turning an old silver Zippo – Hope County rules: no screwing around with flamethrowers in bunkers, _ever_ – over and over in his hands compulsively – and shit, they must’ve been _worried_ about her, Sharky’s not even flicking the lighter _on_. The second Robin and Grace pass through the door Sharky freezes, staring. Then, barely three steps into the room, he’s making a bee-line for her, throwing his arms around her and holding _tight_ , and suddenly Robin’s all curled up in a warm cocoon of sniper and pyro, the scents of gunpowder and smoke and sweat and kerosene weirdly comforting, and she’s pretty sure she’s crying again as they kind of shuffle over to sit her down on the bed.

And she’s planning to talk to them, has shit she _needs_ to say… but she’s just so damn _**tired**_ , and she’s finally feeling _safe_ – just a bit – with Grace and Sharky there for her, and their arms are all warm and Sharky’s shoulder is so very _comfortable_ under her head, that she… just… can’t keep her… eyes…

##############

Robin starts coming back to consciousness, a low murmur of familiar voices waking her gently.

She’s not ever been a slow riser, usually has feet on the floor before her eyes are all the way open, even _before_ the world ran screaming into hell. But right now she can’t think of a single reason to come out from underneath the Pavlovianly tranquilizing nest of covers she’s been tucked into.

Besides, Boomer's tucked up against her side, a warm bundle of love and comfort wrapped up in the weirdly pleasant smell of dog, and the second he feels her twitch awake he sort of sighs - just about the most relieved sound she's ever heard - and presses a little closer to her before falling deeper into his own sleep. Which, going by past experience means that she can take a minute - if she needs to either worry or get a hurry on, her Good Boy will let her know.

Her atypical, dog-endorsed laziness – and fuck everything and everyone, she can be slothful if she wants, _she’ll_ own up to it without having to resort to ritual scarification or anything, because she’s a well-adjusted and _fucking normal_ person, damn it – does, however, come with an unintended side effect. Namely, the murmuring voices coalesce into actual dialogue, and Robin sleepily realizes that she’s eavesdropping on her friends.

On the one hand, eavesdropping's bad, and she should probably let them know that she’s awake.

On the other hand, they seem to be talking about _her_. So…

“-li says she can stay in Wolf’s Den, so that’s an op-”

“How is that _better_?”

“The Peggies haven’t been able to get to it _yet_. That’s a hell of a lot more than Fall’s End can say.”

“Something tells me the Peggies will be somewhat more _motivated_ if they –”

“Well what’s _your_ idea then?!” Nick’s voice is rough, strangled, more angry than Robin’s heard it since cultists tried shooting up his home and abducting his pregnant wife. “She _can’t_ stay here! Not now that John _knows_ about…”

Grace’s voice fills the void of silence, straining and pained under an iron grip of calm, “By this point we have to assume that Joseph and Jacob know too.” Robin flinches a little, despite herself, and it sounds like she’s not the only one. “Even if John hasn’t told them…” Grace trails off herself, a little catch in her voice like she’s fighting not to be sick or something.

“Anyone who’s heard those broadcasts is probably damn suspicious, at the very least.” Jess sounds hollow, exhausted, and there’s a scratchiness in her voice that Robin doesn’t want to think about.

“All the more reason to get Robin someplace _safe_.”

“Like _where_ , exactly?” Grace’s losing the calm, “Anywhere she goes is going to become ground zero. And the last place we want _that_ to happen is in the only territory with actual _military_ discipline behind it.”

“What about Dutch’s Island?” Sharky sounds desperate, jumping in like he’s scared Grace and Nick are about to start beating on each other. “His bunker’s got Wolf’s Den beat in a lotta ways, and that’s the only place that’s totally Peggy-free.”

“And the only reason they haven’t bothered taking it back _yet_ ,” Grace is very nearly _snarling_ , “is because there hasn’t been anything there that they _want_ bad enough.”

“Oh, so _what?_ We just fucking roll over and _give up?!_ _Let_ them take her?!”

“That’s _not_ what I’m saying.”

“Then clarify, _please_ , because that’s sure what it _sounds_ li-”

“I’m _saying_ ,” Grace _does_ snarl now, the words harsh and angry as she rolls over Nick, “that we need a plan that isn’t _fucking **stupid**_.”

“Guys, just –”

“At least we’re fucking _trying_!” Nick’s voice rises, high and strangled and a little hysterical, “Which is more than _you’re_ apparently willing to do!”

“Guys, _seriously_ , calm do-”

“There’s a _difference_ between coming up with an actual fucking plan and just rambling like a _fucking_ moron. Not that you seem to know the –”

“ _Guys, please –_ ”

“Why don’t you take your high and mighty military _bullshit_ and _go fu-_ ”

And that’s probably far enough.

“Guys.”

The room goes dead silent.

It takes a second to lever herself into a somewhat vertical position – apparently imitating a metamorphosing caterpillar in her sleep when sufficiently upset and sufficiently blanketed is a thing she still does, good to know – and another to fully take in the sight before her.

Apparently Nick and Grace _were_ about to start beating on each other, because the only thing that’s keeping them from literally bumping heads is the extremely distressed Sharky wedged between them, supported by Jess – who’s got her hands clamped down on one of Nick’s forearms – and Hurk – who’s very nervously holding Grace by the shoulder – while Addie’s apparently about to go for broke and has grabbed a fire extinguisher.

Robin’s life has gone to hell, three-quarters of her soul are running Crazy Town, and her friends have apparently decided to descend into madness the second she takes a nervous-breakdown nap.

Sounds just about right, really.

Sighing, Robin pins the two combatants with her saddest, most exhausted look – which, depressingly, is not at all affected – and drawls in a raspy, hurting voice, “The kids don’t like it when Mom and Dad fight.”

There’s a beat of silence, followed by a couple nervous chuckles, and – more importantly – Nick and Grace each take a step back – to Sharky’s palpable relief – and shuffle a little in degrees of shame and embarrassment. Nick, in particular, is incredibly red-faced, looking up at Robin with his head hanging, “Sorry, we… we actually _were_ trying not to wake you up.”

She doesn’t even try to bite back the bark of scratchy laughter that draws. “Yeah, no. That is not the part of this insanity that we’re going to focus on right now. You two,” she jabs a finger at the two of them, “are going to remember that you love each other, for the sake of our fucked up little family. Now,” she cocks one eyebrow into her best ‘do-as-I-say’ face, “say you’re sorry and hug it out.”

Everyone goes still, Sharky looking really nervous again as he tried to edge away, and Nick and Grace leaving off looking abashed so they can stare incredulously at her.

“Pardon?”

“You can’t be serious.”

With another – much longer – sigh, Robin forces herself into a fully seated position - skritching idly behind Boomer's ears to settle him when he starts waking up (Lord only knows that _one_ of them should get to enjoy a moment of peace) - and stares them down. “Are you two _really_ going to make me pull the trauma card and guilt you into this?” She raises her other eyebrow, “Because you best believe I will.”

The exact moment she sees the horrified realization click in their eyes, followed by the pain of helpless resignation, is a thing of beauty.

So is the sight of their matching sighs, grimaces, and the sheer awkwardness of their awkwardly awkward hug.

After a painful second they pull back enough to shoot her matching ‘please let us be done’ looks. Robin smiles wearily at them, tilts her head to one side, and – lifting her hands, framing the back of their heads, and pushing those hands together a little – says, “Now kiss.”

And that gets her a matched pair of Looks – and really, nothing brings her team together so well as teaming up against _her_ bless their miserable little hearts – while everyone else finally cracks up, the tension in the air popping like a soap bubble. Surrounded by laughter – and still hugging, so _nyeh_ – Nick and Grace share a look, then turn to her in perfect synch.

“Go to hell, Baird.”

“Aw, do I hafta?” She whines, all sad and pathetic. Then, because she doesn’t know when to stop, she drawls out, “Because I just got back from there and it kind of sucked.”

Mercifully, that still gets of chorus of chuckles. That’d probably be a lot lighter and happier and less nervously cynical if she’d sounded a little less genuine with that last bit.

Everyone starts settling back down slowly – Nick and Grace de-hugging and Addie stowing the fire extinguisher away somewhere – and in the moment that comes directly between a shitstorm getting narrowly averted and everything getting awkward as everyone tries to figure what to do next, Sharky eases down next to her, navigating clumsily around Boomer - who responds with a little grunt of canine annoyance and scrabbles himself partway into her lap, the big spoiled baby - and nudging against her shoulder and handing over a water bottle. “You ok, Boss?”

He’s wincing as he says it, so Robin only snorts a little, chugging back a swig of – mild surprise – actual water. “Not even remotely.” She polishes off the rest of the bottle, then mentally says to-hell-with-it, gives into her id, and lets her head thump down to rest on Sharky’s weirdly comfortable shoulder.

Sharky – being awesome, and her bro, and a stand-up guy for a pyromaniacal redneck – doesn’t even make fun of her a little. He just kind of… puts his arm around her shoulder and holds.

It’s nice.

It’s so nice she has to force herself to get on task, otherwise she’s just going to melt into the comfort and lose her nerve.

“Now then,” _keep it **together** , Robby Red,_ “assuming I have any kind of say in my own deployment,” she’d roll her eyes at the ensuing swell of protests if she had the energy, “I’m going to Henbane.”

That shuts them up.

For roughly two seconds.

“You _hate_ Henbane.”

She thumps a fist lightly against Sharky’s knee, snorting again. “I hate everything. I’m a nihilist now.”

Someone makes a vaguely concerned noise, and Grace shoots her a Look. “That’s… not exactly what that word means. And –”

“Don’t care. Nihilist.” She shoots back a Look of her own. “And since when are you my fourth grade English teacher? Anyway,” she will not – _cannot_ – be sidetracked, “Henbane. It’s the best bet right now and - no!” She actually raises her head up off her fire-scented shoulder-pillow long enough to glare everyone down. “No. It _is_. Grace is right,” she continues, going right over the sniper’s full-bodied flinch of guilt, “unless we can guarantee that the Peggies don’t have eyes literally everywhere we’d go,” and everyone shudders here a little, because the continued existence of Eden’s Gate agents hidden away amongst the Resistance is something no one wants to think about, but everyone knows is reality, “odds are any place I go will get _swarmed_ before I can even get my boots unlaced. So, the way I see it, Henbane’s got three major advantages over Holland Valley and the Whitetails. One –” she pops up a middle finger, to illustrate her point, to cut off any protests, and to demonstrate that she’s an adult. “We’ve already taken back the most territory there, so there’s more breathing room and reinforcements will take longer to arrive and be easier to spot. Two – we’ve already proved that the jail can be held in a siege, so that’s an option if worst comes to worst. And three –” she trails off coughing for a moment, her raw, dry throat throwing up its own metaphorical middle finger until she downs the fresh bottle of water that someone lobs her way. “Three –” she croaks, “not that she isn’t going to be _highly_ motivated by external factors, but Faith’ll have the least _personal_ investment in wanting to ruin my day.” Life. _Existence_. Whatever. “So.” She sighs yet again, smiling all sad and sharp and twitchy at the others, “Henbane. Hate it, but at least I’ll have the best shot at getting shit done there.” 

“Robin…” Grace’s face does something complicated and distressing, a play of negative emotions she really doesn’t want to see at the moment – and, also, she’s getting _really_ sick of people saying her name that way; like she’s trying to hide track marks or cuts under her sleeves or something, instead of trying to stop the world from burning down around her – as the soldier walks over to kneel down in front of her. “You do not have to stop all this shit on your own. Just…” A warm hand reaches out when she looks away, gently closing around her left hand, “The important thing right now,” Grace takes her other hand too, squeezing both, “is that you _stay **safe**_.”

And Nick must be back to his usual self, because he’s already moving to back up Grace. “Hard as it may be to believe, the rest of us _are_ capable of handling ourselves without you saving our asses.”

The others are chiming in all around her, the only exception being Sharky, who stops nodding the second he presumably feels her tense up before starting to tremble violently. And that’s why she’ll kick his ass the _last_.

Robin meets Grace’s gaze levelly, sitting up straight and squeezing back – albeit less comfortingly – as she carefully articulates each word. “I will _not_ hide myself away in some bunker while people are _dying_.” She holds the older woman’s eyes for a moment, until _Grace_ blinks, then lifts her gaze to meet the others in turn. “That’s not happening. So long as I _can_ help, I am _going_ to. I’d just –” Her voice seizes up despite her best efforts, eyes burning anew now that she’s actually put some liquid back into her body. And then Sharky’s arm pulls her closer and Grace squeezes her hands tighter, and she draws from the support like it’s air, managing to make her voice – trembling as it is – work again. “I’d really rather not have to do it alone.”

And Sharky – being awesome and her bro and seriously she’s so damn _glad_ she’s got him – just puts his other arm around her, and fuckit they’re hugging and if he’s ok with it then she’s not going to complain for once, and rests his head against hers as he sighs, “We’re not going anywhere, Boss.”

“You’re stuck with us.” Jess settles herself down on the other side of Robin, not even raising a fuss when Addie tucks herself in close to them. “Whether you want us or not.”

Nick just sighs, sounding so completely _done_ with everything that Robin manages to crack a smile at her other favorite bro, and collapses down next to Grace on the floor. “It’s just…” His head lolls back against her knee, and he looks plaintively up at her. “Henbane _really_ sucks, Robby.”

She can’t help it, she barks out a laugh, tears pricking up in her eyes as she shakes her head. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

There’s a long moment of silence, everyone just clustered together and trying to… something. Who even knows anymore.

Then, from out of the silence, Hurk’s voice pipes out. “Candles are still technically illegal in Kyrat, ‘cause no one bothered to get rid of this one law the king made before he bailed the fuck out of there and the rebel forces opposin’ him plunged the country into an entirely new civil war.”

Everyone freezes, staring blankly at Hurk.

And then everyone proceeds to lose their shit, breaking down in hysterical laughter as Hurk – still looking so damn proud – starts trying to explain the sheer insanity that was one of his favorite “World Tour Locales.” And in the dead center of it all, with her wake-up-grumpy dog sighing in her lap, Robin’s laughing the hardest, curled up like the world’s most fucked up butterfly in a cocoon made out of her found family’s arms, keeping her safe and held together, if only for the moment.

Robin Baird is twenty-two years old, trapped in hell with no end in sight, branded with the worst soulmarks and bound to the worst soulmates she can imagine, and living on borrowed time.

But she’s not alone.

And she’s _not_ going down without one helluva fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: PTSD, suicidal behavior/thoughts, and vaguely positive comments about Rob Zombie's _Halloween_ remake.
> 
> _Well what do you know... a chapter where everything... isn't horrible. In fact, things are... kind of nice? Bonding and comfort and family togetherness, and all that jazz? And just in time for Christmas too! Honestly, I'm probably as surprised as you are, this wasn't even intentional. XD_
> 
> _Well everyone, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. And, much more importantly, I hope y'all have an **amazing** Christmas and the happiest of holidays! Seriously, thank you all so much for supporting this, the views and the kudos and the comments really mean the world to me. Have the greatest time everyone, I'll see you next week. ^x^/_
> 
>  
> 
> _Title comes from "I Wish I was the Moon Tonight" by Neko Case. Because by this point Robin probably does._


	10. Pacify Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hey everyone! Hope y'all had an amazing Christmas and/or holiday season and/or winter! As we approach the end of this year I just wanted to take a second and really thank all of you for all your support in this series. When it comes to talking/writing about my own thoughts and feelings I, somewhat ironically, tend to have a hard time coming up with the right words to fully express myself... however. It has meant so much to me to see all the feedback, in the form of comments and kudos and bookmarks and viewing hits, and know that people have been enjoying something that I made - and, moreover, that I **enjoyed** making. Reading your comments and seeing new kudos and bookmarks and hits brightens my day every time, and just puts the biggest smile on my face. Thank you all, so very much. I only hope that reading my works has given you, at the very least, some portion of the joy that your support of them has given me. You are all **amazing**. <3_
> 
>  
> 
> _Aaaaand with all that touchy, feel-good stuff out of the way, let's get back to the steady implosion of an undeserving martyr's life! It's what we're here for! :D_

People in Henbane keep giving her weird looks.

Ok, weirder looks.

Which is fair, but Robin’d still kind of like for it to stop.

John’s crazed broadcasts – or, at least, wide-eyed reports and recitations of them – have made their way across the river, and no one seems entirely sure what to think, say, or do about it. And since the people of Hope County are terrible gossips – even in the midst of cult takeover and guerilla-to-open warfare – and have depressingly terrible peripheral vision, Robin gets pretty well acquainted with their speculation pretty quickly.

A lot of people seem to have decided that the simplest answer is, as it has been, the right one – John’s a fucking unhinged psychopath with a torture fetish who’s got a hard on for The Deputy, and is being pressured to ‘recruit’ her into Eden’s Gate so she’ll stop fucking their plans up and so, presumably, they can fuck her instead. It is, depressingly enough, not _incorrect_ , for all that it’s only _part_ of the awful truth, so Robin doesn’t bother correcting the theory when she overhears it.

A small number of people have a different theory. _They_ think that the Peggies got to her at some point, the means by which they did so varies from person to person, and that she became John’s secret, illicit lover, spending stolen moments of passionate, religiously charged kinky fuckery with him between spying on the different Resistance cells and reporting it back to her culty overlords. Eventually – these strange, _strange_ people continue – someone got a clue and kidnapped her to safety, bringing her in for a tall glass of deprogramming, and now John’s going out of his mind trying to get his precious love slave back. _This_ theory is completely off base and, more importantly, disturbing beyond all reason – and _seriously_ , she did _not_ need to know the fantasies people have apparently been having about her, much less the fantasies they’ve been having about John having her – so Robin _does_ bother correcting it when she overhears it. By which, of course, she means she steps into plain view and makes direct, _intense_ eye contact with the theorist until they feel the full weight of their stupidity, depravity, and general poor life decisions crushing their sick little soul into the dust. Then she adds punctuation by going off and blowing someone or something of the Eden’s Gate nature off the face of the Earth.

And then there’s some people who have realized _exactly_ what’s going on. These people don’t say anything, don’t whisper or theorize with others. They just… stare. Some with confusion, some with horror, some with suspicion, and some – worst of all – with a kind of soul crushing _pity_. The first three she can work with, try to set at ease. The last kind she tries to avoid.

The good news is that, _somehow_ , the one thing no one is speculating about is where her loyalties lie. Hell, even the brainwashed-sex-slave theory people and the suspicious-smart-people think she’s on the Resistance’s side – or, at least, either _back_ on the Resistance’s side or on it _for now_. It’s actually a little weird, the way that _no one_ seems to seriously doubt her.

Robin suspects it’s a case of follow-the-Leaders. Sheriff Whitehorse has _literally_ everyone’s respect and trust, so him continuing to act all respecting and trustful towards _her_ has a kind of radiating effect that everyone just sort of picks up on. Likewise Virgil and Tracey’s behavior towards her doesn’t change from the last time she’d been there – so either Whitehorse _did_ tell them at some point, or they’re both _remarkably_ good at coming to terms with horrible news in no time at all, or they just belong to Theory Group One: John’s Fucking Weird – so that’s basically the entire command structure of Henbane demonstrating that she’s still one of the cool kids. Plus her people are still with her, and she hears at least one person point to them – and Jess in particular – as proof positive that she’s still/currently Kool-Aid free.

Or, hell, maybe her tendency to rain fiery death and destruction down upon the Peggies has something to do with the lack of doubt. It _is_ , as Nick points out, kind of hard to reconcile the image of her being secretly loyal to the Project with her admittedly unhealthy love of using high-yield explosives and incendiary devices against them.

So, all in all, aside from the weird looks she’s getting things aren’t that different from before she experienced the second-or-so-worst-case scenario in John’s bunker. Henbane still sucks, the Bliss still fucking _sucks_ , Angels and Bliss-Beasties are still the stuff of waking nightmares, and Robin still spends her time breaking necks and shooting arrows and setting fires and explosions. Because that’s her life now.

And, to her utter shock, she actually does manage to keep her presence in Henbane a relative secret for quite some time.

Oh, they start suspecting it’s her pretty damn quick – the argument could be made that she’s _more_ conspicuous when she goes quiet than when she goes loud, as she’s one of the only people in the Resistance who can actually pull off the whole Ninja Ghost Warrior thing. But, for over a week, all that the Peggies do is suspect.

And then…

Well…

It’s just so damn _stupid_ , really.

They’re headed for another shrine, stopping off on the way to chuck a few Molotovs into a Bliss field, and as the flames are starting to catch – and, somewhere, she can hear a Sharky whine that he wasn’t invited – it suddenly hits Robin that there’s a pronghorn a ways away from them that’s staring them down in a weird, not super pronghorn-like way. Visions of Bliss-deer stampeding through her head – _**no**_ – she shoots off an arrow into the thing’s head.

Which means that, when the sonovabitch explodes into a cloud of sparkles and butterflies and drug fumes, the arrow ends up sunk into the chest of a really shocked looking Peggy.

Who’s holding a radio in one hand.

There’s a beat where they just _stare_ at each other. Then – because the one lucky thing that’s happened in recent memory is that he’s one of the shirtless ones – the guy topples over, and its Robin and Jess staring blankly at his corpse.

And his _radio_.

“What are the odds,” she muses after a second, not pulling her eyes away from the dead guy and fingering her bow nervously, “that I got him _before_ he called this in?”

It is exactly at this point that the distant rumble of engines hits them.

Robin’s eyes slip shut, her hands falling to her side and her head lolling back limply. Then – feeling Jess’ wide eyed stare on her, and hearing the roar of engines grow steadily louder – she opens her eyes again and looks up into the unfeeling void of the night sky.

“Motherf-”

##############

Things get unpleasant after that.

The region’s Peggies become ridiculously agitated and motivated; and, because that’s not enough, it’s not just Faith’s people anymore. It looks like John has not calmed down much, if the rabid fervor his people have brought into Henbane’s any indication; and Robin hasn’t personally seen any of them yet but apparently there’s a collection of very intense Chosen and accompanying Judges making life difficult up by Drubman Marina and the surrounding area – which doesn’t answer the questions of whether the other Seeds know about her or whether John’s alone in his obsession, but it _does_ give a vague indication that the answers might just be “definitely” and “probably not.” So that’s fun. 

The number of wanted posters of her goes up too, practically wallpapering anywhere that’s Peggy controlled, now featuring the not-at-all-concerting amendment that she is Wanted – **Alive**. 

These two factors meld together, with the end result being that every damned day feels like she’s been Marked and/or Blessed and/or Hunted, with a Peggy lying in wait around every corner, desperate to grab her but weirdly hesitant about how they go about it. She never thought she’d miss having Peggies scream threats and insults at her while baying for her blood, but now – feeling constantly raw and on-edge, like how she’d imagine a mouse feels when it can smell but not see a cat – she kind of _does_.

She’s also been getting more Faith-hallucinations, out in the Bliss. Only now all the giggling and twirling and sweet talk has been replaced by… well Robin _thinks_ they’re death glares, but she could just be projecting.

Regardless, it’s _really_ creepy.

It is, however, nowhere near the response they were expecting. Which is simultaneously a relief and even more unsettling.

“Maybe they don’t think any of us know?” Tracey suggests one night, as they nurse terrible moonshine and try to be grateful that they still aren’t under siege (and it has since been confirmed that, yes, Whitehorse told Virgil and Tracey, though Robin hasn’t bothered to ask when). “I mean…” the other woman chews the inside of her cheek for a second, “not going to lie, Dep, but if I were in your shoes I doubt I’d tell a damned soul.” Then she flinches a little, taking a long pull from her cup before rubbing compulsively at the bare skin in the crook of her right elbow, eyes going all distant and hurt.

And, because Robin is a good friend, she neither takes offense at the implied slight on her mental state and judgment nor comments on Tracey’s own poorly concealed Seed-shaped baggage. “I didn’t tell any damned souls,” she drawls instead, “I told you jackasses.” She gestures at the assemblage of jackassery around her, then points a cautionary finger at Tracey, “Don’t listen to Eden’s Gate propaganda, Lader. Your soul is _probably_ fine.” 

That gets a ball of crumpled paper and a hissed “asshole” thrown her way, but Tracey is grinning and not rubbing her arm anymore so Robin calls it a win.

“Yeah but… really? After all the crazy John let loose with? I mean,” Nick looks around in confusion accented nervousness, “I know they’re crazy, but they’re not _stupid_ , right? They _have_ to figure that at least _some_ people know by now.”

“You forget just how many of our people have been _trying_ to come up with literally any other explanation.” Whitehorse, being amazing, doesn’t waste time shooting her any apologetic looks for stating the painfully obvious. He does, however, kind of nudge his knee against hers comfortingly, because he’s also nice. “This isn’t the sort of thing most people would consider first, much less _want_ to believe is real.”

Robin nudges back, nodding her head towards the sheriff. “Can confirm.”

There’s a few dark chuckles – and they’re finally reaching the point where they can start appreciating gallows’ humor at the expense of her ongoing trauma, yay, _progress_ – before Nick shuffles nervously again. “So what?” Poor guy looks halfway beside himself with nerves, so Robin feels justified in topping his cup off again. “We think they’re… what, banking on and trying to maintain implausible deniability?”

“That or they don’t want us to think they care.” Sharky shrugs a little at the aside glances, topping off his own swill. “Y’know, in case someone gets it into their head to try and pull the Wheaty solution and threatens to torture-kill her or somethin.’”

And that derails the entire conversation but quick, everyone clamoring over each other while Robin tries desperately to explain – _**no** he didn’t actually suggest it, even if he had he didn’t even intend for it to go beyond the threat if the plan got implemented, **yes** we’ve explained it’s a stupid plan, he gets it, it’s handled, **calm down** please_ – before Whitehorse gets it into his head to act on impulse and storm up to the Whitetails and into Wolf’s Den to pistol-whip the poor dumb kid.

Eventually everyone calms back down, but they don’t really manage to muster the will to restart the conversation they’d been having.

Also, someone out in the courtyard sets themselves on fire accidentally, and half of them run out to try and rescue the poor dumb bastard while the other half stand around like complete jackasses making inappropriate color-commentary. Or, as it’s known amongst the Cougars of Henbane – Tuesday.

And so a couple days go by, people dying and things exploding and drugs happening and fire and all reasonably SOP.

And then – because life, the universe, and the Monkey god all apparently hate her – the sheer _wrongness_ that infects Eden’s Gate and everything it touches decides to go up a notch.

She’s up at the Whistling Beaver Brewery, working her way quietly through the ranks, and at first things are going well. Then, as she’s peacefully choking some guy to death behind an air-conditioner, a truck pulls up. And some Chosen hop out of it. With a big ass Judge. That sets one paw on the ground, snaps around, and _immediately_ starts snarling and raging in her general direction.

Things go quickly to shit after that.

Thank the actual Lord – _not_ the Eden’s Gate one, thank you all the same – that she’d thought to take out the mortar guy ASAP.

 _Some days_ , she muses, shooting one last mortar off to blow the ever living hell out of the scrambling cultists below before turning tail and _booking_ it for the edge of the roof as a RPG screams its way towards where she’d been, _small mercies are all you can really count on. Especially these days. Motherfucking cult bullshit making the way-down-low-hanging fruit look all appealing._

What follows is a blur of blood, violence, and fire, Robin handling the Peggies in the center of the area while Jess and Boomer – presumably – pick off the ones on the outskirts.

She’s making a bee-line for the last alarm – desperately hoping that she gets there before anyone cultish does, ‘cause she does _not_ want to have to deal with more reinforcements – when out of nowhere a baseball bat or something clips her on the right arm, just nearby where John’s people had gotten her with the Bliss bullet, and she hits the ground from the force of it. She’s reeling, trying to get her feet back under her and swearing prolifically, and is reaching for her bow when suddenly her right arm erupts into white hot heat and _oh fuck_ that wasn’t a bat she’s been _fucking shot._ _**Again**_. And then Robin has precisely enough time to think ‘Well shit,’ when something explodes a few feet away, sends her crashing into a wall, and knocks her head against the hardwood and for a loop.

It probably only takes a few seconds to start getting herself back together, but by the time she does the Peggy that shot her is standing over her, and she doesn’t know where her bow is and he’s still armed and she doesn’t know if he hit anything vital but she’s pretty sure she’s bleeding heavily, both from her shot-up arm and her banged-up head, and _shit_ this isn’t good and – 

And…

It takes her a second, head swimming and ears ringing, but it suddenly hits her that the guy isn’t shooting.

Instead he’s just… staring down at her, eyes all wide and gun kind of waving in the air.

It’s weird and confusing and kind of scary, and everything is kind of fading away into the background as the guy stares at her and she stares at him and maybe it’s the blood loss and the blow to the head making things all weird, but the Peggy looks…

Scared.

Horrified.

 _Broken_.

She barely has the time to fully register the situation when, his gaze tracking from the bloody mess that is her arm up to the blood dripping down the side of her face, eyes filling with tears of overwhelming shame, the cultist whimpers out a desolate, “Father forgive me.”

And then all Robin can do is stare in horrified disbelief as she gets a front row view to the guy raising his gun and blowing out his own brains. 

The fight’s still raging around her, Peggies and bullets and radios screaming everywhere, explosions going off, the familiar song of Grace’s rifle, psychotic snarls and howls ringing out from where Boomer has presumably decided to tackle the Judge. And in the midst of it all Robin can’t bring herself to move. Instead she just… kind of stays there, sprawled on the ground, hood knocked back and bleeding all over the floor, staring at the corpse of some guy who’d killed himself over shooting her.

Then she doubles over and pukes up everything she’s managed to choke down over the course of the day.

Then she gets her feet back under her, grabs her bow from where it’s laying nearby, shakes a little gray-matter off of it and slings it back across her good shoulder, pulls her 1911 out, and charges back into the fray.

She’s got to get back to work, after all. 

She can break down on her own time.

##############

Robin’s not _one hundred_ percent certain what’s going on at the moment, but she’s pretty sure it’s bad.

It is, after all, the safest assumption when there’s this much Bliss wafting around.

They’d been…

They’d…

The jail.

They’d been at the jail. 

They’d been at the jail, riding high off the victory at the Brewery – or, in Robin’s case, getting her arm and head patched back up ( _no broken bones or severed arteries, **probably** no concussion, totally sincere and not bitter at the low-hanging fruit yay_) and getting ludicrously intoxicated to try and deal with ( _read: **not deal** with_) that one Peggy’s suicide – when…

Shit.

They _had_ had an infiltrator.

The memories are starting to come back, still fuzzy and disjointed but at least clear enough that she can put the picture together. They’d been in the cellblock, Robin fighting off a hangover while they talked strategy for handling the remaining outposts, when suddenly they’d heard Virgil yelling, everything stopping abruptly only to start up again double-time when a gunshot had roared out. They’d charged into his office in time to see Virgil slumped over and bleeding on the ground, and a Cougar – Rhonda Gains, _Ronnie_ , Hope County born and raised, fifty-two, divorced, her son Andy had been in the Whitetails when the Reaping started and had thrown in with the militia, she hadn’t heard from him in weeks but had never lost faith that there’d be good news soon; she’d been there to help put things back together after they’d cleared Lorna’s, had made a joke about pick-up trucks that had made _Addie_ blush – raising her free hand (and oh _shitshitshit **shit**_ the other one was pulling down the switch to open the _gates_ ) and pulling the trigger and for the _second_ time in as many days Robin got to see someone shoot their own brains out up close and personal. And then all hell’d broke loose.

Tracey had run for Virgil, screaming and crying and trying to stop the flow of blood, and the rest of them had run out screaming for everyone to get armed, get ready, and then there’d just been a lot of screaming as Peggies and Angels flooded into the jail.

Things get pretty snapshot-y from that point, the jittery series of somewhat interconnected violent images that’s not uncommon when it comes to remembering a particularly frenetic battle. She _does_ have distinct memories of Jess and Sharky drawing in most of the Angels, Jess sniping ones at the back while Sharky clears the closer masses with gouts of flame, keeping their backs to a row of cells and the collection of non-combat ready civilians hiding inside. She remembers hearing Addie and Nick swearing up a storm from the infirmary, Peaches’ enraged snarls echoing along with them. She remembers Grace and Hurk’s voices coming over the radio, straining to be heard over the roar of planes and trucks and shit that are thundering around them. She remembers seeing Sheriff Whitehorse wading right into the thick of things, slinging bullets and pulling his people right out of the jaws of death, like he’s something out of a particularly brutal Western. She remembers working her own way through their ranks, Boomer snarling like something primal at her side, filling Peggies with bullets and crushing throats on ones that get too close while her dog rips and tears them to pieces. She remembers the exact moment it hits her that the Peggies are going out of their way to not hurt her, at which point she shifts gears, not only killing whatever cultists and Angels she can but deliberately throwing herself between them and any civilians she comes near, ignoring the way that Whitehorse and Jess and Sharky start screaming at her for it. It helps, a little, but it doesn’t take long for the realization to sink in for everyone that they’re in _trouble_.

And that’s when the Bliss happens.

Turns out the motherfuckers have made gas grenades out of the Bliss. Because of _fucking_ course they have, why _wouldn’t_ they? 

The result is pretty bad. Everywhere the Cougars are fighting to not panic, desperately trying to get stuff up around their mouths and noses, trying to get clear of the fumes, and Whitehorse is coughing violently as he hauls someone off the ground and bellows to try and get outside. And then _he’s_ going down, a Peggy standing over him with a huge ass length of pipe, and Robin’s ignoring people shouting at her to barrel over and snap that guy’s neck, getting a hand on the sheriff’s shoulder and trying to get him up even as her vision blurs and sparkles and sways. 

She nearly manages it before something gets her by the braid, yanking her head back and slamming her – too dizzy from Bliss to react fast enough – against a wall.

She gets her body to start working again, struggling violently as who’s ever got her tries shoving a little white flower up into her face, and manages to clip the Peggy in the face with her elbow. He goes down. And, unfortunately, so does she – coughing and gasping and shuddering hazily from all the Bliss.

And that, to put the cherry on top of the shit sundae her afternoon’s become, is the point that Robin sees a pair of delicate little bare feet start padding her way.

Everything’s muffled around them, either because people are actually getting away and taking the bulk of the fight with them, because the Bliss is making everything all Bliss-y, or because of some combination of the above, but she _can_ process that Faith’s not doing her usual creepy humming thing. No, instead the littlest Seed – the one she simultaneously loathes the most and hates the least – is scarily quiet as she walks over to where Robin’s sprawled, half collapsed half leaning against the wall, kneeling down to stare coldly into her face.

There’s an indeterminably long moment where neither woman moves, just stares at the other with shared – albeit differently sourced – loathing.

Then, forcing a pretty, venomous little smile onto her face, Faith demurely picks the fallen flower off the ground and brushes it gently down Robin’s cheek. “I’ve been sent to bring you home.”

_Oh._

There’s not enough Bliss in the _world_ to stop the surge of blind horror those words send shooting through her.

_Oh fuck **that**._

And yet…

Something niggles at the back of Robin’s mind, underneath the Bliss and the horror and the terror, and she tries to pull away, to make sense of whatever her subconscious is trying to tell her. 

At which point Faith’s other hand shoots up – quickly and sharply and totally at odds with her whole hippie-dippie-forest-faerie shtick – and grabs her roughly by the hair, holding her in place as she shoves the flower in close again, eyes burning with – 

_Oh._

_**Oh.** _

Somewhere in the past few days, Robin’d had a weird little thought occur to her, as she’d puzzled over the atypical anger of the Faith-hallucinations. She’d found herself wondering whether Faith doubted her place in the Seed family, whether she ever thought about the _other_ Faiths and how easily they’d been disposed of. Whether she ever thought about how easily _she_ might be disposed of. Whether those thoughts had started to grow and grow and grow after she’d learned that there was someone out there – someone who all three Seed brothers had already displayed an atypical interest in – who had a connection to the family that no one could break, no matter how much they _really_ wanted to. A connection that Faith would never be able to match herself, no matter how hard she tried or how much she did or how loyal she was. It’d been a distinctly uncomfortable thought, and Robin’d tried to move on and forget it just as soon as it’d hit her. _Anyway,_ she’d told herself, _if they’ve kept her around this long she’s probably well and truly in with their little psycho family, no worries there._ And then she’d gone about her day and blown stuff up.

But now, though?

The Bliss is rising up, drowning her in an ocean of sparkles and clouds and butterflies, but she manages to make her lips quirk up into the sweetest, most viciously condescending smile she can manage as she sort of purrs, “Jealous? _Rachel_?”

The delicate fingers shudder and tense and claw into her hair, and a flood of terror/doubt/nausea/anger/ _hate_ surges up in the other woman’s eyes.

It’s one of the most beautiful things Robin’s seen in a _long_ time, and it’s not just the Bliss that makes her laugh in _genuine_ pleasure, the smile going up into her eyes as she giggles and sing-songs, “Your brothers want me more than you,” into Faith’s stunned face.

The last thing she sees before the Bliss takes her all the way under is Faith’s pretty face contorting with pure _hate_ , and one delicate little hand rearing back to swing down against her face.

And now she’s in the middle of a creepy, Bliss covered field. 

Which, honestly, is probably not even a field, but that’s _maybe_ not the thing to be focusing on at the moment.

In fact, the only thing she should _probably_ be focusing on is _how to get the ever-loving fuck out of Dodge._

She tries to stop her feet moving, and that’s when it sinks in that someone’s got her by the left arm. Their forward momentum runs up against her sudden halt and they both stumble, Robin whimpering a little under her breath as she clumsily tries to pull her arm free. There’s a low hiss of anger from somewhere nearby, and suddenly Faith’s up in her face, grabbing her by the chin and shoving another Bliss flower at her as the smaller woman tries to keep her voice all light and delicate. 

“They’re _waiting_ for us, Deputy; we need to _go_. _**Now**_.”

Robin coughs, tries to pull away, to shake the fumes from her head, but whoever it is that’d been leading her has a grip on her again, holding her gently still while the Bliss starts working again, and all she can do is slump into the Peggy’s arms and twitch a little as she’s dragged along.

Faith’s lips quirk upwards a little, a barbed giggle lilting out of her mouth as she slaps Robin’s cheek – much harder than it probably should be to qualify as playful – and spins away to keep walking. “There now. That’s much better.”

They move steadily through the field, something in Robin’s chest and the back of her mind fighting to rise up – like embers smoldering in leaf litter or a car engine on a cold day – through the fog of Bliss. Once or twice she manages to wrestle some control back, only for their little procession to stop each time, for Faith to shove more Bliss at her and snarl, the anger in the other woman’s eyes growing each time it happens.

Finally, as Faith is shoving the damn drug flower at her _again_ , the deputy gets herself together enough to pull free of Faith’s grip, to bare her teeth and snap them down, just _barely_ missing the tips of Faith’s pretty little fingers.

The anger swells over at that, the siren’s pretty face going ugly with anger as she pulls one hand back. “Stop _fighting me_ , you _ungrateful_ –”

The hand stops about a half foot from Robin’s face, Faith’s delicate wrist caught in the massive hand of the Peggy that’s been guiding Robin along. The guy’s hand tightens around Faith for a second, and he’s slowly pulling Robin a little further away from the lady Seed as a big bass voice rumbles out, “No.”

Faith gapes up at the guy for a second – and, to be fair, Robin’d probably be doing that too if her body would continue cooperating with her – before she starts struggling, face going all helplessly pissed as she tries to pull her wrist free from the unyielding grip. “You –”

The guy squeezes her wrist hard, just once, cutting her off abruptly. “Jacob said you weren’t to harm her.”

Robin is just starting to process those words – _so A, the guy’s a Chosen; and B, no, no no no no nonono, no thank you, none of that please_ – when Faith goes deathly white and painfully still. They stay there for a few seconds, a little knot of grabbing and holding that probably looks really weird from an outside perspective, before the Chosen guy finally lets Faith loose again.

The petite psychopath rubs her wrist quickly, hands trembling as she looks distinctly not towards Robin. Then, with a little shuddery breath, she turns and starts leading them away again, the Chosen following and gently supporting the deputy as they go.

Neither of them seem to realize that they didn’t manage to re-up her Bliss dose.

The Bliss fields start to flicker a little around the edges, the concrete and bulkheads of a bunker showing through the clouds and sparkles, and Robin chews at the inside of her mouth until she tastes copper, trying to get her pulse up and rage going through the lingering strains of the trip. 

It’s starting to work when Faith pulls up abruptly, eyes locked on something out of Robin’s vision.

Then the other woman turns to look at her, and the malicious glee in those doe-like eyes makes her blood run cold.

A gentle hand brushes against her cheek, soft and sweet enough that the Chosen doesn’t do more than twitch a little, and Faith looks so genuinely sympathetic as she coos up at her that it’s a little disorienting. “You know… I don’t understand. Did you think you could just continue to do what you wanted without consequences?” She sighs, shaking her head and looking sadly up through her lashes, like Robin’s a particularly stupid and ill-tempered child that she’s being forced to deal with. “You could have stopped all this at any time. Could have… given up your childish pride and come home. It’s not as though you haven’t been given _countless_ chances to do so. We’ve been reasonable. We’ve been fair.” The hand petting her face – and _seriously_ , could the Seeds just _stop **doing** that_ already?! – trembles a little, and the pretty mask cracks to show the anger beneath again, Faith’s voice peaking a little as she hisses at the deputy. “But you are just so _selfish_!” The Chosen twitches again, and Faith takes a long, deep breath before continuing, voice still strained but more controlled, “You have been fighting and _hurting_ the people who just want to keep you _safe_. To bring you into their _family_. To lo-” That bit won’t leave her lips, her voice choking up and the fire of pure _hate_ returning to her eyes. It takes a few deep breaths this time, before Faith can make herself continue, trying to smother the obvious anger and hate with condescending ridicule. “All so that you could be what? A hero?” Their eyes lock for a moment, and Faith’s lips curl into a sickened sneer. “Even now, you’re still trying to be the hero.” She breathes out a mocking little giggle. Then, abruptly, Faith swoops in, standing up on tip-toe to whisper, harsh and angry and cruel, into Robin’s ear. “It’s too late, you know. You should have just killed yourself when you had the chance. Now they won’t _ever_ let you go.” And then she’s pulled back, giggling and smiling and staring hungrily up into Robin’s eyes, drinking in the surge of sickened fear that must be visible inside them. Titling her head to one side, demure and mockingly, Faith reaches out tenderly, taking Robin’s free hand in her own and tugging slightly towards a corridor. “Want to see what we can do?” Teeth flash savagely out from a pretty smile as she turns, “Come with me, and I’ll show you a world you never dreamed possible.”

They start moving down the corridor, towards another open field of grass and flowers and fog and Faith starts humming again, the pretty sound lilting through the air like blood in water as she skips and swirls and – 

_No._

Robin goes deathly cold.

_No you fucking psychotic **bitch** , **no!**_

Faith skips away from them, is singing now, her fingers running gently over Earl Whitehorse arms, drawing him into her song as she slips a pretty white flower between his fingers, and her eyes don’t stray from Robin’s, hate and cruelty and smug delight burning away inside them as she guides the sheriff towards a gentle slope of illusionary terrain, Robin trying to muster up the _anything_ to stop him as he shambles through a flickering gate.

And then Faith strolls up to her, smile as sweet as a poisoned candy apple in her moment of triumph, and that’s when the _rage_ finally kicks in.

Robin’s head slams back, driving into the Chosen’s nose and mouth with a sickening _-crack-_ , and she’s wheeling around the second his grip on her loosens, eyes falling on the recurve bow slung over one shoulder – and _oh_ , somebody upstairs _doesn’t_ hate her, yay – as she jabs a fist out and crushes his larynx. Faith’s screaming behind her as her hand closes on the bow, the other one rushing out to grab up the quiver that goes with it as she spins back around, shooting an arrow off into a Peggy that’s just rounding the corner.

She nocks another arrow, feeding off the pain that burns through her right arm and funneling into her rage, casting her eyes about for Faith as gouts of Bliss suddenly start flooding the area around them, and the world erupts into a pretty nightmare.

What follows is a fever dream of hazy violence and insanity – Peggies and Angels rushing her from out of the fog, images of Faith surrounding her, floating up into the air and shooting balls of light at her like some kind of demonic faerie princess, a flood of sickly sweet taunts and insults and condescending admonishments swamping over her as she tries to just _fucking **kill** the bitch already._

“You want to throw another little _temper tantrum?_ ” Faith sounds awful calm and condescending for someone who’d screamed like a sissy for her minions to come save her the second Robin’d gotten herself free and armed. “ _Fine_. Go ahead.” The Deputy foregoes shooting a Peggy rushing her, instead chucking the bow straight into his face, then grabbing his sidearm and putting a bullet into him before firing another round off at a Faith, who sadly explodes into fog and nothing else while her fellow illusions sneer, “It won’t make _any_ difference.”

She fires off a few rounds in rapid succession, exploding Faiths by the half dozen and swearing under her breath. “Your _face_ won’t make any difference, Tinkerhell.”

Something – presumably not actually a ball of magical light shot out of Faith’s hand – screams towards her, gouging a furrow out of one thigh as she throws herself to the side, firing at and exploding the Faith who’d shot her. The others spin around her, smug and undeterred. “The Father’s will cannot be denied.”

Robin spins, firing into Faiths until they’re all gone, leaving her turning circles in the false meadow.

“You have _no_ idea what they’re going to do to you.”

She spins towards the sadistic purr, pistol aiming at empty air. Then the edges of the fog ripple again, and she swears as another horde of Angels stream her way, firing bullets between vacant eyes until her clip runs out and she has to resort to crushing throats and snapping necks again.

“You think you’re strong?” She dives for a glint of metal, coming up with an abandoned rifle just in time to empty a clip into some Angels, Faith’s voice echoing through the clearing, dripping with cruel amusement. “They will rip you apart, _burn_ all the pieces they don’t want, and put you back together _just… right_.” A twisted giggle trills out through the air, and Robin barely manages to roll out of the way of another ball of light, clubbing an Angel across the face as the Faith nearest her smiles and simpers down at her, full of childish amusement and sadism. “Like a pretty little dolly.”

“Bitch,” The Deputy fires twice, first into the Angel that’s clawing for her throat and then at the giggling Faith, sighing in frustration more than anything else, ”would you just die already?”

She gets her feet back under her, spinning and turning in what’s starting to feel like the world’s trippiest and most violent square-dance – firing bullets off into the assembly of floating Faiths ( _a… a murder of Faiths? A coven? A fucking abhorrence?_ ), dodging and wheeling around balls of light and Angels and Peggies, swaying and reaching for whatever weapons she can see through the fog whenever whatever she’s got runs out of ammo, all to the tune of screams and taunts and gunfire.

A few more turns on the killing floor have gone by when her eye lands on something, a familiar shape poking out of a Peggy’s bag that’s flickering in and out of existence. Her eyes go wide with realization and she makes a break for it, swearing under her breath, driving, and letting out an unhinged laugh of her own when her fingers close down on her prize.

She allows herself a second to scan the field, then – grinning and giggling manically – she chucks the proximity explosive towards the greatest concentration of Faiths and Angels she can see.

The Angels go flying into oblivion, and about four Faiths disappear into Bliss and butterflies, but the _fifth_ one…

Robin immediately brings her gun up when the fifth Faith wheels away from the blast with a shocked, _pained_ shriek, firing off a full clip and sending a few beautiful sprays of very real blood into the air before the _actual_ Faith stumbles back into the fog with another agonized scream.

Robin decides that she really prefers _this_ song and so, snatching the bow back up off the ground, she charges ahead, lips curling up and away from her teeth as the red washes over her eyes.

Waves of Peggies and Angels come at her and she cuts them down, keeping her eyes trained for flashes of red-stained white. She falls into a rhythm – run, dodge, shoot, spin, snap, shoot, dodge, crush, run, hunt, shoot, _laugh_ , dodge, spin, shoot, _yoink_ – as the Bliss and the adrenaline and the pain and the rage sweep through her, all the agony and fear and injustice surging up inside her, clawing at her insides, _hungry like a wolf_ , and she can’t think of a single _fucking_ reason to hold back, so she fucking _doesn’t_. She follows, and she hunts, and she kills, laughing and grinning and singing – _Run Rachel, run Rachel, run run run. Run Faithy, Rook’s got a gun gun gun…_ – out all the _**Wrath**_ that’s been building and building inside her, the dying screams and agonized cries and the plaintive little whimpers and cries that echo before her fueling her hunger.

Another swarm of Faiths ( _an intrusion, maybe? Faith **does** kind of remind her of a roach at the moment_) fly up around her, and she works her way through them, teeth baring further in a feral smile as the siren’s voice rings out again, only much less smug now. “You have no _idea_ the _gift_ they’re offering you!”

She fires three times in rapid succession, downing two Angels and a Faith, and revels in the wail of fury and terror that comes from the real Faith as her last defender hits the ground. “They _love_ you!” All the pretty artifice is _gone_ , leaving a writhing mass of hate and fear and _jealousy_ , and it all comes spilling out like pus out of rotting flesh as Faith’s face twists and she _screams_ , “How can you _do_ this to them?!”

For a second, the world seems to still around Robin. There’s still a handful of Faiths left, floating in the air, hands raised and glowing with lethal light, staring down at her with pure, unbridled _**hate**_.

But only one of them is bleeding.

There’s a moment of pure clarity, of blissful _nothingness_ , as Robin raises the rifle and calmly shoots her last bullet towards the bleeding Faith. In the incongruously tranquil moment she can practically see the bullet, drifting lazily through the air until it reaches its target, piercing directly through Faith’s stomach, blood and Bliss and butterflies flying out from the wound like scattered flower petals. She sees Faith’s big eyes grow wide, her pretty mouth fall open in a gasp, her delicate little hands shake and tremble and lose their deadly light as they fly towards the wound. The whole world around them goes painfully white for a moment, time slowing to a crawl as Faith hangs in the air.

Then the world erupts as time catches back up, Faith’s agonized _wail_ shattering the peace and calm as she crashes back to the ground on the banks of a foggy river.

Robin lets the spent rifle fall from her hands, clattering down to the ground as she paces slowly – _hungrily_ – forward, eyes fixed on Faith’s writhing form as she draws her appropriated bow again. 

Faith is clutching her bloody stomach, gasping and sobbing and wailing desperately as she tries to hold her insides inside herself. And then she must catch a glimpse of the approaching Deputy, because her head snaps around, her eyes narrow in _hate_ and teeth flash like something feral, the pain and fear of her impending death falling by the wayside as she struggles upright and glares up at Robin with all the rage and hate inside her.

The Deputy comes to a stop about a foot away from her, meeting The Siren’s gaze – and the rage and hate contained therein – measure for measure.

There’s blood staining Faith’s teeth, bubbling up past her poisonous lips, and it arcs through the air as she snarls in blind, broken fury. “You don’t _deserve_ them.”

Robin’s not smiling anymore, isn’t entirely sure when she stopped. Instead her face is perfectly blank as she stares down at Faith. “For once,” she drawls the words slowly, suddenly _tired_ and _empty_ beyond anything she’s felt recently, as she raises up her bow – arrow already nocked and pointed directly at the older woman – and slowly pulls back the string, “we are in _total_ agreement.”

And then she lets go.

Robin watches the arrow sink into Faith’s pretty face, burrowing directly between her wide eyes and tearing out the back of her skull with a wet, splintering _-pop-_. The other woman stands in front of her for a second, swaying slightly, lips twitching soundlessly. Then, with one final choked out exhale, Faith topples over backwards into the stream, a very real spray of water splashing up against Robin before the limp body floats away.

The Deputy stares for a second, watching the hunk of meat that had only just been Faith Seed get carried downstream, escorted by wisps of Bliss and a few particularly macabre butterflies.

Then she sighs, body shuddering, and slaps herself roughly across the face – once, twice, three times – until the adrenaline surges back up again, deciding to ignore the way her right arm’s going kind of cold and numb. Her fingers clench on her appropriated bow, and she keeps just a tight a grip on the rage inside as she wheels away from the water and plunges deeper into the meadow-bunker.

She can celebrate or break down or whatever later. 

Right now Robin’s got a sheriff to find and a bunker to blow right back to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Violence, Nonconsensual Drug-use, violence, threats/implications of torture/brainwashing/other unpleasantness, violence, extreme violence, and character death.
> 
>  _... Character Death? Oh, wow! Hey, Faith just... uh... huh..._ *suddenly belting* Ooooh ding-dong the witch is dead! Which old witch? The Henbane witch! Ding-dong the Henbane witch is - _oh hey... Robin's kind of horribly traumatized right now, isn't she? … … …_ Well she's gone where the goblins go, belooooow! Below, below, yo ho! Let's open up and sing -
> 
> _Seriously though y'all. That was **so cathartic** to write. Screw you, Faith. Screw you right through the ground and down into **hell**. 0_0_
> 
> _So I hoped you liked this chapter! Thanks for reading, and I'll see you in the New Year!!! \^x^/_
> 
>  
> 
> _Title comes from "Pacify Her" (natch) by Melanie Martinez. Feel free to listen and decide for yourself which parts are Faith thinking about Robin, and which parts are Robin thinking about Faith. Or both. Because parallels._


	11. But My Smile Still Stays On

A lot of what follows Faith’s death is a blur – series of still images intercut by disorienting flashes of action and violence.

She distinctly recalls finding Earl Whitehorse in a cell, briefly losing herself to panic and agony and desolation when it looks like her sheriff’s given up, tears streaking down her face when his _order_ makes her body obey, makes her get back on task – back to work, Rook – and dive deeper into the bunker. She remembers sneaking and raging and killing killing killing her way through another room of Peggies, turning valves and making things explode. And she remembers booking it like the ever loving bat out of hell through the shaking, exploding bunker, people screaming and Bliss boiling all around her. And then…

Then she’s back outside, collapsing on the ground and gasping for breath as the world explodes in fire and smoke and sparkling butterflies, drunkenly kaleidoscoping between realities.

And then she’s passing right the hell out. 

Again.

When she comes to a few hours later – head _screaming_ and body aching like she’s been hit by a truck and right arm on _fire_ , more tired than she’s been in who knows how long – it occurs that she is _ridiculously_ lucky that it was some Cougars that found her, rather than the Peggies.

Seriously. After everything she’d just gone through waking up in cultist custody would have _**sucked**_.

Then she passes out again. Which, honestly, she kind of thinks she’s entitled to do by this point.

The next time she comes back to the land of the living she’s tucked back up in her bed at the jail infirmary – and she’s going to make the conscious decision to not be upset or annoyed or anything that she’s got a designated bed in _anyone’s_ infirmary – feeling like she’s been stuffed with cotton from all the drugs that have presumably been pumped into her, with her dog sprawled over her hips, her cougar sprawled over her legs, her bear sprawled grumpily on the ground next to her, her friends sprawled in chairs and on the bear-free ground around her, and her decisively _not_ dead or Bliss-ified sheriff sprawled all exhausted-like in a chair by her bedside.

Whitehorse bolts up to awareness the second she twitches, normal human eyes locking with hers, and she’s pretty damn sure they’re both tearing up as Sharky and Nick’s voices start ringing out, as everyone starts waking up or turning their way, and people are cheering and clapping and sobbing in relief and – 

“Deputy Baird!” Virgil Minkler grins over at her from the next bed, torso swathed in bandages and smile all loopy and lopsided from whatever someone – presumably (damn well _better_ be) Doc Lindsey – dosed him with. “You’re awake! That’s fan _tastic!_ Tracey!” His head swivels and lolls over towards the teary-eyed woman by his bedside, smile huge and dopey as he babbles, “Tracey, isn’t that fantastic?!”

Tracey just heaves a broken little laugh, though Robin’s barely even paying to that – or anything else, really – as she stares at Virgil. Then, dizzily, she turns back and stares at Whitehorse. Then at everyone else, one by one, taking in all the teary eyes and smiling faces around her.

And then, warm and safe and surrounded by people who _aren’t dead_ , Robin says _fuckit_ and _**breaks**_ down into tears.

##############

There’s a metric shitton of clean-up to do in the aftermath of Faith’s death and her bunker’s destruction. For one thing they’ve still got a couple outposts and shrines and other Peggy strongholds left, which is inconvenient enough; but, on top of that, there’s also a veritable horde of rather aimless Angels and other assorted prisoners to deal with. A lot of people are still salvageable, especially now that Faith’s gone and the Bliss isn’t being churned out like knock-off handbags out of a third-world sweatshop, so they get shifted – somewhat ironically and very satisfyingly – to Jessop Conservatory, where Doc Lindsey says they should be as close to their old selves as they’ll get within short order. 

A lot more people, however, aren’t quite so lucky. 

Someone finds a bunch of people – Angels and near-Angels – wandering aimlessly out by the remains of the bunker and radios it in to Whitehorse, asking what _precisely_ they’re supposed to do with them. 

No one really has a _good_ answer to that. 

But no one can quite stomach the _smart_ answer of ‘put them down’ either.

So, in the end, Robin gets her gear together and starts heading out to work. She then gets shanghaied by the local medical practitioner, and ends up sitting patiently and obediently through a passionate lecture from Doc Lindsey about how being shot and drugged and generally brutalized is bad and you’re supposed to take the time to _recover_ fully after it happens so you don’t end up needing to get your stupid arm amputated or anything. Robin sits through the impassioned speech, all the while smiling politely, and promises to be good. Then she locks him in his office while his back is turned. She then slips out the back door while the vet is cursing her name, lies through her teeth to Jess and Grace that she’s been cleared for duty so long as she sticks to guns and explosives for a while, and clears out the terrified Peggies still lurking at the Convent. That little excursion gets her bitched out something _fierce_ once Lindsey gets set free and everyone starts comparing stories, but by that point everything’s settled and her act of “self-destructive stupidity” has served its purpose so she plays transparently contrite and mentally calls it a win. 

It helps that no one can argue the benefits of her latest outing. They shove the truly Blissed-out people into the Convent grounds, throw a few guards around the perimeter, set up a few speakers with music playing to keep them calm and contained, and set out water and food periodically. The result is pretty damn horrifying, and no one wants to go anywhere near it, but it largely works and it’s the best anyone can think of for the time being.

One of the near-Angels, as it turns out, is Marshal Burke. Whitehorse’s face gets all ashamed and guilty and tense when he looks at the marshal, white-eyed and shambling around with the other not-zombies. Robin _tries_ to feel the same way, but can’t quiet manage it. And, yes, she _knows_ that if not for Burke it would have been something – _anything_ – else that set off Eden’s Gate, that started all this insanity, that the Seeds had just been _waiting_ for any kind of excuse to begin their reign of violence and destruction. But that doesn’t change the fact that it _was_ Burke who’d done it, that he’d been so damned _sure_ of himself, so hungry for the prestige and the commendations and the rewards he’d reap by bringing down a cult that he’d dragged them all right down into _hell_. Nor can she _quite_ forget the fact that the smug, self-righteous bastard had left her behind to die. _Twice_. And, ok, maybe it’s petty… but she can’t quite bring herself to feel for him all that much. Not when everyone else has suffered so much because of his damned _pride._

And no, she does _not_ think about how Seed-like _that_ particular thought feels. 

Not. 

At. 

All. 

Anyway. 

After the assault on the jail and the destruction of Faith’s bunker, everyone’s pretty well done-in, but they all dig their heels in, try to focus on the fact that – holy _**shit**_ – Faith Seed is _fucking **dead**_ , and try and get the rest of Henbane cleared before the rest of Eden’s Gate can react and come down on them with a vengeance.

A few days later vengeance still hasn’t come down on them, and they’re talking over their approach for taking back King’s Hot Springs Hotel – and oh _joy_ , a haunted hotel, because _of course_ – when there’s a tentative knock on the door of Virgil’s more than slightly refurnished office, followed by the equally tentative head of a very unsettled looking Cougar.

“Um… sirs?” The kid looks kind of like he wants to claw off his own skin, and is looking anywhere but at Robin. “You… might want to turn on the –” he stutters off nervously when his eyes accidentally meet hers, gaze going _immediately_ to the floor and skin going sickly pale under his tan as he nods roughly towards the TV. “There’s… there’s a… broadcast coming from…”

Whitehorse takes pity on the kid, nodding calmly in his direction and dismissing him – to a gusty sigh of relief – with a soft, “Thank you, Ned.”

By the time the kid’s gone Tracey’s made her way over, fingers hovering by the device and eyes flickering across the room for the go-ahead. It takes a second or two for it to sink in that everyone’s looking to _Robin_ for the signal.

She _really_ doesn’t want to give it.

She does anyway.

The screen is black when they switch it on. Then, by some kind of luck – good, bad, or who the hell knows – the recording starts up from the beginning.

And suddenly Joseph Seed’s staring out at Robin from a darkened room.

_“A seal has been opened.”_

After the moment of silence that prefaced his words – after the sheer length of time it’s been since she last heard it – Joseph’s voice nearly knocks Robin off her feet, sends her stumbling a little into Grace’s side, the older woman’s arm coiling immediately around her and grounding her against the surge of electricity that runs over her skin.

The image of Joseph is silent for a moment and – rather hysterically – Robin wonders if he can see her, if he knows she won’t be able to process anything so quickly after hearing his voice, that he needs to wait for her mind to start up again before he continues. But then he’s speaking again, voice low and pained and heartbroken, and Robin tells herself that it doesn’t make her own heart ache to hear it.

 _“Faith… Faith…”_ He sighs, tired, head hung low, _“She was not the first to carry that name, but she was the most devoted.”_ Suddenly Joseph’s head rises, hellfire eyes staring out at them from behind his glasses, making her heart and stomach and everything seize up. _“She was like many of you when she came to me…”_ Joseph’s voice is so gentle, so compassionate, and a low tremble runs through the entire room, _“broken… lost…”_ He trails off for a moment, eyes falling again as a shadow of… something falls over his face, eyes going distant and hollow and vacant as he murmurs, _“It is Faith that holds us together, and without Faith…”_ there’s a tiny, shuddery tremble in his voice, _“we are lost.”_ Joseph sounds _broken_ , and everything inside Robin is _screaming_ for her to go to him and make it all better. _“So we must never lose faith.”_ There’s another long, still, agonizing silence after that little whisper. Then, slowly, Joseph’s gaze rises up again, and suddenly the room is thick with tension as an undercurrent of righteous fury burns out from behind his eyes. _“And those that try to harm us…”_ his lips curl back, for a split second, into a _snarl_ of blind rage, _“that **dare** to steal and hold and lead astray that which does not **belong** to them…”_ the _rage_ in Joseph’s voice _burns_ through her – _oh, oh that is a **bad** sign_ – and Robin flinches a little deeper into Grace’s hold, the whole room going painfully tense and Whitehorse and Sharky moving in to bracket her against a damned _recording_ , as Joseph’s hellfire eyes burn into them, _“they will **suffer**.”_ And then, just as it seems like that’s it, that Joseph’s righteous fury is going to break free and burn the whole damn world down… it _stops_. Vanishes. Melts away like frost under the first rays of dawn, and instead of wrath Joseph is suddenly looking up with an expression of peace and compassion and… and…

It’s heady. Disorienting. The contrast rushing over her like the waters at her “baptism,” punching her in the gut and freezing her blood and breath solid. And it’s insane and impossible but it starts sinking in that Joseph’s looking _at **her**_ , staring dead into her eyes like he knows exactly where she is, like he’s right there in the room with her, like they’re all alone in the world, and as she stares into her soulmate’s hellfire eyes the world drops further and further away from her, leaving her in a cold, dark, empty void with Joseph Seed.

 _“I know that you’re afraid.”_ There’s no question who those tender, comforting words are meant for. _“That you’re confused.”_ He breathes a soft, sad little laugh, _“Lost.”_ There’s so much understanding, so much _compassion_ in his voice, curling into her skin like lightning and sunlight, and she thinks she might just burst into tears or throw up. Joseph continues, soft and sad, sinking his words into her like barbed wire, _“You’ve been lied to and led astray by those who only wish to use you for their own wicked purposes.”_ He leans towards her, face agonized and eyes welling up with tears, like the pain he thinks _other people_ are inflicting on her is breaking his heart. _“They don’t love you.”_ Joseph’s pleading with her, quietly desperate, like someone who’s trying to coax a loved one to come home, safe, to break free from an abusive partner. The irony of it is staggering. _“But it’s **alright**. You don’t need to be afraid; the things that they have forced you to do… they don’t matter.”_ Her soulmate stares into her eyes, smiling brokenly as he slips a knife into her heart and _twists_. _“I forgive you.”_ A small, agonized sob catches in her throat, Grace’s other arm jolting up around her, pulling her close, and Sharky’s hand crushes down on hers. _“And soon, when you are found and restored to us… when you are delivered safely **home** …”_ Joseph’s voice drops low, peaceful and calm and patient and not at all hiding the hungry purr underneath, and it’s all winding around her and trying to pull her away from everything, pull her towards and into Joseph’s patiently waiting arms. _“I will cast out all their lies and their sins, banish the darkness they have poisoned your heart with, leaving you clean and pure and new as I guide you into our light… our peace… our salvation.”_ Robin’s falling, flayed open and tangled up in his voice and his eyes, his words sinking deeper and deeper into her skin as he wraps her up tight and slowly pulls her down after him into the abyss. She needs him to stop – needs to stop him, to cut off the words and cut herself free before –

_“Our love.”_

The Words on her hand and wrist erupt, years of pain and longing and fear and shame crashing headlong into all the pain and misery and evil she’s seen in the past months, and all of that crashes screaming into those two, pure, beautiful words. The words that are really all she’s ever wanted to hear. The words that hurt her worse than anything the Seeds have done to her to date.

If her soulmates could just stop breaking her heart and making her cry, even just for a little while, she’d really appreciate it.

 _“It will be alright.”_ Joseph’s voice is the only thing to reach her, piercing straight through the fog and the void and settling around her like a gentle embrace. _“I will not rest until you are safe. Until you are where you belong. Until you are restored to us.”_ Their eyes are still locked, and in an instant Robin _knows_ that he can see her. _“It won’t be long now…”_

Joseph smiles.

_“I have faith.”_

The camera holds on Joseph’s face for a moment, before the screen goes briefly black and the recording starts all over again.

“Turn it off.” Virgil’s voice is strained with anger and disgust, cutting through the stunned silence and Robin’s trembling gasps and over Joseph’s canned voice like a shot. When no one moves he speaks again, the emotion in his voice ramping up. “I said turn the _damn thing off!_ ” Then when no one moves again, this time probably because they’re all too busy staring in shock over hearing Virgil curse, he limp-storms over to the TV and switches it violently off, shocking everyone _further_ when he snarls a hate-filled “ _Asshole_ ” under his breath.

There’s another moment of stunned silence.

Then, practically vibrating, Tracey nods in profound agreement. “ _Seriously_.” She shares a look of wrathful solidarity with the former-ish mayor, “ _Fuck_ that guy.”

The others are only just starting to chime in with their own two cents when Robin sighs, tired and sad and so very done with everything, scrubbing the back of one hand over her burning eyes, and then – because she _really_ doesn’t know when to shut the hell up – says, “I don’t want to.” 

Half the people around her proceed to choke half to death on their own spit, and Whitehorse just drops his face into one hand with a pained “ _Rook…_ ”

Distracted as everyone might be for the moment, Robin still figures she’s only got a second or so before they come back to their senses and try and comfort her or something equally intolerable, so she immediately pulls herself up straight and tries to shake the nerves off. “So…” she tries to keep her voice light, but the tense heat in her throat makes the drawl rasp out painfully. Robin sighs deeply, clears her throat, and tries again, locking eyes with the sheriff, “I’m thinking… I might stick around here for a while. Just…” Her throat seizes again, eyes burning, and when Sharky’s grip on her hand tightens and Grace’s arms squeeze around her she draws from them, forcing a casual smile and – somehow – managing to get her voice to drawl out easily. “Just to make sure everything’s cleaned up right. And, y’know,” she swallows hard, makes her voice and her expression and her posture flippant as she jerks her head towards the bandages swathing her right arm, “so Doc Lindsey doesn't try and tie me to a bed until I’m healed up or something equally horrifying.”

She can feel everyone’s eyes on her, but makes herself focus on Whitehorse. 

For his own part, her sheriff’s gaze is level, calm, cultivated stoicism not quite hiding the deep well of _relief_ at what she’s just said. Still, the old bastard makes a show of looking over to Virgil and Tracey, both of whom are grinning like idiots while the former-ish mayor is practically jumping up and down. Only then does Whitehorse look back at her, eyes betraying the casual nonchalance in his smile. “Alright then, I suppose we could use the help.”

It seems like everyone around her sighs all at once, and Robin manages to fake a somewhat more natural smile as she shakes some tension free, semi-reluctantly pulls free from the beaming Grace and Sharky, and kicks back to lean against Virgil’s desk. 

The others are already pushing past the broadcast, are falling back on routine, troubleshooting the current host of problems at hand. Robin does her damnedest to fall into the rhythm with them – smiles and plans with everyone, tries to breathe, and tells herself she’s making a tactical move rather than a terrified retreat.

The lie would probably come easier if the echoes of Joseph’s voice would stop crawling under her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Mild(ish) PTSD, Possessive/Obsessive Behavior, and Joseph Seed. Lord knows John isn't the only one to qualify for his own warning. 
> 
> _In which Joseph continues to be a creepy, possessive bastard, and Robin is damned well entitled to a break! No matter how doomed to fail it is. Also, Virgil! Because like **hell** was I going to let him die on my watch if I had any say in the matter! و0_0و_
> 
> _So a shorter chapter this week, hopefully the content made up for it. And, if not, well... next week probably should. See y'all then. ;)_
> 
> _(Also first post of the 2019 for me, whooo! Happy New Year, everyone!!!)_
> 
>  
> 
> _Title comes from "The Show Must Go On" by Queen. Because **obviously**._


	12. Interlude: Jacob - If I’d Only Seen (That the Joke was on Me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _STOP! … Jacob time. Circa Chapter 8. Strap yourselves in, y'all._

Five days pass after Jacob storms out on his brothers.

Reports from Henbane are grim, more territory lost and their forces whittled down further.

Reports from Holland Valley are tense, the faithful failing to reclaim any territory as the Resistance shores itself up.

Reports from his own territory are infuriating, militia strikes becoming more and more frequent, more and more bold, and still no progress being made in finding and culling the source of it all.

All the reports come from his underlings.

Jacob hasn’t spoken to his brothers once since that day.

He thinks he might have finally fucked things up too badly.

He’s so scared.

##############

On day six he gets woken up by one of his Chosen, the man gray-faced and trembling as he disturbs Jacob in the still dark hours of the morning, carrying the news that he’s been summoned to The Father’s side.

He’s getting slowly to his feet – so damn tired (he’d only _just_ gotten to bed two hours earlier) that it’s a fight to not let it show – when the trembling man corrects himself, takes Jacob’s annoyed glare for the correction it is and relates the _exact_ message he was given.

The second the message is properly delivered Jacob freezes.

Then he wakes the hell up and _bolts_ out to the helipad, doing his clothes up as he goes, Joseph’s words setting a fire of blind terror inside him, spurring him forward like the hounds of hell are on his heels.

_“Find Jacob, get Jacob, I **need** him!”_

The chopper ride – not long, not long at all, not in the grand scheme of things – is intolerable, every second that it takes to get to his brother’s side like another day back in the desert. He’s barely keeping it together throughout the trip, barely manages to hold himself back from jumping out of the chopper the second they’re over the compound, has to _force_ himself to _wait_ until they’ve landed, to _walk_ past all the buildings that sit between him and Joseph’s house. But he’s Jacob Seed – The Soldier, The Protector, The Guardian, The Strong One. So he makes himself walk, makes himself look unfazed, doesn’t let any of the blind panic and terror that’s ripping him apart inside show, even as his mind _screams_ at him that he’s going to walk in to find one of his brothers – his soulmates, his charges, **_his_** – full of arrows and bleeding out on the floor.

Somehow he makes it. Somehow he gets through the door. Somehow he makes his way through the house to where Joseph’s waiting for him, some distant, indecipherable sound beckoning him onward until he’s reached the closed door.

Trying – _failing_ ( _ **weak**_ ) – to fight down all his deepest fears he opens the door, walks into the room, takes one look at the sight before him, and _freezes_.

There’s no blood. No arrows. No death. No new promise that Jacob’s been too fucking _weak_ to uphold.

No. Instead there’s only Joseph – pacing, hands twitching and lips moving silently, face drawn up in worry, skin sickly pale and slick with sweat as the radio…

 _ **Fuck**_.

Jacob barely noticed the radio at first, too focused – too worried – about everything to do more than get the barest buzz from the transmission. Now though…

It’s Johnny’s voice on the radio.

And he sounds _unhinged_.

His brilliant, confident, charismatic, powerful baby brother is _ranting_ over the radio, hysterical almost to the point of incomprehensibility, pleading brokenly over and over again and it almost sounds li – oh, oh _shit_ , Johnny’s _crying_. _**Sobbing**_ into the radio, sounding small and scared and _broken_ like a lost child, and it’s a sound Jacob’s only ever heard from him _once_ , back when he _was_ a child.

His baby brother’s voice echoes over the radio, echoes through his mind, tears up and over his skin, sinking down into his heart like shrapnel, and suddenly all Jacob can think of is the day he’d been taken away from his soulmates.

He’d been out by the barn, first because he was watching and waiting to make sure his plan’d _worked_ , and then because he simply hadn’t been able to _move_. That’d been where and how the police had found him, quick to respond to reports of a burning barn, screams coming from inside, and a tall, menacing figure watching the flames. They’d come at him with their guns out. Then they’d taken one look at him and immediately dropped their guns. In the end, the sheriff and his four burly deputies hadn’t so much arrested Jacob as they’d half-guided half-carried him back to the ambulance, voices kept low and soothing in what was probably the kindest, most sympathetic recitation of someone’s Miranda Rights in the history of Georgia. And Jacob hadn’t caused them any problems – probably wouldn’t have been able to even if he’d wanted to, and he hadn’t actually wanted to ( _they’d_ been decent) – all the way until they were just starting to get him on a stretcher, held steady by a pair of utterly horrified looking EMTs. And then Johnny had come barreling out of the house, slipping past deputies and only coming to a stop when Joe _barely_ managed to catch him, pulling the squirming two year old into his arms, holding him tightly and trying to comfort him as the strange adults started to swarm their way. And in the midst of the pandemonium Johnny had locked eyes with him and just started _screaming_.

 _“Jacob! Jacob don’t go! Don’t leave us! Jacob! Jacob please! Don’t leave us, Jacob, please! Jacob! Ple-_ "

_-ase. **Please**. Please come back to me. **Please** come back, please, **please** come home, **please** –”_

Jacob sways, vertigo and John’s desperate voice sweeping over him, past and present colliding and knocking him off balance so badly he actually thinks he might be sick, too caught up in everything to fully wrap his head around where and when he is, feeling as broken and helpless and _weak_ as he had as a beaten down sixteen year old boy, too caught up in the need to protect the only things that mattered that he didn’t even think about how he was _abandoning_ them until it was too late, until it was _Jacob_ who was hurting Joe and Johnny when he was _supposed_ to be _protecting_ them, because he’s always been _too fucking **worthless** to_ – 

_“Jacob?”_

The voice cuts through the maelstrom of disorientation – of pain and guilt and _hate_ – and settles on his skin, like a hand reaching down to pull him up from the mud and filth. 

Just like it always does.

Jacob shudders, blinks, forces his eyes to focus back on the world around him, and he belatedly realizes that he got so caught up in his youngest brother – his soulmate, his little prince, his Johnny – that he’s been ignoring Joseph, who’s staring desperately and holding his arms out towards him.

The second he realizes his failure Jacob’s moving, throwing his own arms around his little brother and pulling him in close, hand closing over the Words on the back of his neck and cheek resting on the top of a trembling head, humming deep and low in his chest and rocking a little until Joseph’s shaking dies down somewhat. Jacob’s free hand runs up and down Joseph’s back, slow and warm and steady, and Joseph’s arms are _clutching_ him, nearly crushing the breath out of him with that constantly surprising strength.

It takes a second for Joseph to pull himself back together – Jacob holding the pieces in place for him while he tries. Then, _finally_ , there’s a soft, barely audible murmur from the general area of Jacob’s shoulder. “I… sent word to Holland Valley.” Joseph’s voice is raspy from concern, Jacob’s skin prickling all over as he hugs his soulmate closer, as though that will somehow fix something. At the very least Joseph seems to appreciate it, squeezing him in turn and nuzzling up against his neck a little. “John should be contacting us any moment.”

They continue to stand there for a few minutes, intertwined, holding each other together, just like they always do – _just like they’re **meant to do**_.

Then, finally, they settle down enough for the world outside of their bond to start creeping in again and, reluctantly, they pull apart long enough to sit down, pressing as close together as they can the moment they’re settled. And then they… wait.

Too much time passes.

John doesn’t stop ranting.

Suddenly there’s knock on the door.

Joseph’s on his feet, not bothering to say anything – not seeming to notice that John’s tirade hasn’t stopped – as he darts across the room, flinging the door open on a quaking, _terrified_ looking woman.

The woman cowers under their twin gazes like a rabbit caught under a wolf’s paw ( _weakweakweakweakweak_ ), watery eyes darting frantically between them for a moment, then jerking over to Joseph when – beyond even his patience – Jacob’s little brother hisses out, “Well?”

The woman flinches, stuttering and stammering and trembling before them until Jacob can see the muscles in Joe’s back tensing, his fingers twitching almost imperceptibly, and he doesn’t need to see his little brother’s face to know the inhuman, unbearable _look_ the woman must be receiving right now.

He almost feels for her. 

Then, just as Jacob’s pretty damn sure Joe’s about to _snap_ , the woman finally finds her voice. “Father… we’ve heard from the faithful in Holland Valley…” the woman shakes once, so violently he can hear her teeth click together, confusion and horror and blind terror warring it out on her face as she finally whimpers, “Herald John refuses to listen to anyone.” She stares up at them, desperate. “He won’t come.”

He barely hears Joseph’s confused little exhale, drowning in utter _shock_ as he is.

John… John doesn’t refuse Joseph.

Not for any reason.

Not _ever_.

Almost as quick as it came the shock vanishes, a nearly overwhelming surge of _fear_ in its place as Jacob’s mind races, trying to come up with _any_ reason for his baby brother’s apparent insanity, and he’s barely holding it together as he storms over to the door, grabbing the terrified woman by her arm and dragging her through the house, shoving her outside before barking out to the Chosen who’d accompanied him. “You two,” they snap to attention immediately, “go to the Holland Valley Gate, go to John, and escort him here.” Somehow, he’s not sure how exactly, he manages to keep his voice steady, almost calm. “The Father needs to speak with him.” He doesn’t bother waiting for their acknowledgement; just turns on his heel, closes the door behind him, and comes face to face with Joe, staring up at him with wide, terrified and confused eyes. Swallowing down against his own fears Jacob sighs, gathers Joseph back into his arms, and walks him into the next room to wait.

Time ticks by slowly, Jacob _painfully_ aware of the passage of time as he curls around his still trembling little brother, as he listens to their baby brother sob and rant over the radio, as he feels helplessness and fear and a thousand horrifying possibilities whirl up in his mind. He wants to get up, to shut down the radio that John’s voice is spilling out from, to call up Holland Valley and make the faithful there shut down the transmission – and _damn it_ , as soon as all this is resolved he’s going to find out _why_ they haven’t done that _already_ – before John makes himself look too – he tastes the word on his tongue and bites it back with a snarl ( _not John, never Johnny, Johnny isn’t…_ ) – vulnerable in the eyes of their followers and their enemies. But that would mean that he wouldn’t be able to hear him anymore. And as painful as his hysterical voice is to listen to, to _not_ have it right now – to not have the assurance that John’s _alive_ and _safe_ in his bunker – would be so much worse. So instead of moving or acting or fixing, Jacob just sits and _holds_ – keeps his arms wrapped around Joe like he can somehow hold them both together.

For once he actually can’t keep track of time, and so he’s not sure how long it’s been when the broadcast suddenly cuts out, jarring the both of them like they’ve been shot.

The silence makes the ensuing waiting game all the worse.

Jacob’s about half a step from losing it, from throwing himself out the door and on his way to Holland Valley to find out what in the hell is taking so long, when they _finally_ hear it – the creak of the door swinging open, the frenzied murmur of voices that cut off abruptly when it slams, the rapid step-step of John’s fancy shoes against the hardwood floors. In a second they’re on their feet, moving in tandem through the house until they’re face to face with –

_Fuck._

Jacob missed Johnny’s wild years – to his warring relief and shame. Missed the time his baby brother spent losing himself in drugs and drink and meaningless sex, trying to numb the pain of his hellish life with pain of his own making. So he doesn’t _know_ … but he’s pretty damn sure that the man standing in front of them now probably mirrors the John Duncan of those sin-mired days.

Gone is the slick, cultivated polish. Gone is the air of confidence and power and control. Gone is all the strength and charisma of John Seed, Herald of Holland Valley.

Johnny looks _broken_.

His hair is a mess, like he’s been tearing his hands through it again and again, spiked up and hanging down wildly. His fancy clothes are rumpled and torn, one sleeve rolled up while the other’s long since fallen back down, hanging sloppy and unbuttoned. There’s blood splattered all on his clothes and his skin, presumably from where he’s beaten someone – quite possibly to death, given how completely wrecked his torn and bloody knuckles are. And as horrible as all that is it’s nothing on the state of his face; his skin washed out and slick with sweat, sickly gray but for where the skin of his nose and around his eyes is a painful red, his eyes still shot and wet from tears, angry red lines scrabbling over his face and his arms where he’s clear torn into himself with his nails and –

**_Fuck._ **

His chest is bloody – drips and smears of red clinging tackily to his skin, dripping down from the angry red letters that he’s reopened, _**Sloth**_ carved fresh and anew and still bleeding sluggishly, painfully visible underneath a silk shirt that’s been ripped nearly in two.

John looks up at them, eyes wild and brimming with barely restrained madness, like someone who’s been pulled fresh from the hell itself. “What,” the strangled hiss that passes through his lips barely sounds human, doesn’t sound like John, _absolutely_ doesn’t sound like how John talks around _Joseph_ , the barely restrained flood of fury and pain and resentment so bewilderingly out of character given the worshipful _adoration_ Johnny’s always held for their soulmate. It’s not how John talks to them. It’s very nearly how John talks to the _sinners_ doesn’t want to offer atonement. “Do you _want_?”

Jacob stares back at the stranger in front of them, unable to move, and thinks he’s going to be sick.

There’s a moment of stillness – suffocating and terrifying. Then, just when it seems like _something’s_ about to explode and bring the world crashing down around them, Joseph moves.

“John,” their brother’s voice is deceptively calm, betraying none of the terror and tension that Jacob can still feel coiling off of him – and there it is, just like always: Joseph crushing his own humanity and needs down to take care of his brothers, to be the rock and the light that keeps them from falling to their own vices – as he takes a few steps forward, reaching out gently to place a hand on John’s shoulder. “Calm down, whatever has ha-”

“I don’t have _time_ for this, damn it!”

They both freeze, staring in abject _shock_ at their little brother.

John has never interrupted Joseph in his _life_. Not when they were children and _certainly_ not now. It’s just not the sort of thing that would ever even _occur_ to the youngest Seed – to actually talk over, much less _scream_ at their brother/Father/mother/soulmate/guide and guardian/ _savior_ / _ **everything**_. It’s something so uncharacteristic, so utterly _impossible_ that Jacob’s actually a little unsure of whether it actually happened or whether he’s _hallucinated_ it.

And John doesn’t even seem to notice, doesn’t recognize the way he’s just turned their worlds upside down as he keeps ranting, digging his fingers through his already messy hair as he snarls, “I _need_ to get back to Holland Valley, there’s still a _chance_ , I can still _reach_ her, get her to come _back_ if I just –”

“John, please,” Joseph’s hands reach out again, trying to catch their brother as he _pleads_ , mounting fear starting to break through his composed mask. “You’re not making any sense, just _calm down_ and _talk_ to us, let us help you.”

“Why did you bring me here?!” John rounds on him, saliva flying as he snarls like a rabid dog, eyes wide and bright with madness, and Joseph takes a _step **back**_. And then, just as suddenly – before Jacob and Joseph can even think of _reacting_ to this new breed of insanity – John wheels away, clutching his head like it's about to split and shatter into pieces as he whimpers, “I _need_ to be in Holland Valley, I need to _find_ her.” A low, broken sob spills out from John’s lips, tearing trails of agony through the Words on Jacob’s chest, doing the same for Joe if the way their brother flinches back is any indication. John’s hands drop away from his head, curl around and onto his arms almost involuntarily as he starts hugging himself, rocking back and forth on unsteady feet as the sob warps into a high, hurt-animal whine in the back of his throat. “ _She **needs** me._”

“Who?” Somehow, even in the epicenter of this whole mad affair, even as Jacob’s about to fall to pieces in the face of something he needs to fix but can’t figure out how to, Joseph is still standing. Joseph is still looking at Johnny with all the love and strength and support that’s saved their lives (he’d say their _souls_ if he could bring himself to believe he still had one) more times than Jacob can count. Joseph is still holding his hands out, waiting for their baby brother to reach out and take hold of salvation.

If there’s ever a moment that proves why Jacob will never hesitate to kill or die for his brother – his soulmate, his reason, his Joseph – this is damn well it.

John doesn’t seem to hear him, but Joseph isn’t phased. He just keeps his hands – a tremor in them that would go unnoticed to anyone but Jacob – outstretched, his voice calm and full of love and understanding as he continues, “Who is she, John? Who needs you?”

Long, clever, ink-soaked fingers tremble and clench into John’s shaking arms, blunt nails cutting into skin where the left sleeve is rolled up high and spilling new drops of blood down painted skin and onto the hardwood floors of Joseph’s house. The sight, the smell of it hits Jacob hard, makes his muscles seize and his heart break, makes every instinct scream at him to cross the distance, to grab Johnny and wrap him up safe and tight, to stop the world from hurting him – stop him from hurting _himself_ – no matter the cost. He’s actually getting his body back under control, his mind speeding up and starting to _work_ again, and he’s about to act on instinct when – not even looking his way – Joseph holds up a hand towards him.

Jacob freezes in place, a raw sound – pain, frustration, fear, agony, _Wrath_ and _despair_ – getting caught in the back of his throat as he’s caught between two fundamental pillars of his existence – between protecting Johnny and following Joe.

If Joseph notices his inner turmoil – the agony his command is causing – he doesn’t show any sign of it. Just keeps his warding hand lifted towards Jacob for a moment longer, then slowly brings it around, walking calmly towards Johnny with his hands outstretched. His voice, when he speaks again, has lost any touch of fear or confusion. It’s so full of love and peace and strength – the promise of deliverance – that it crushes all the upheaval Jacob’s going through gently under heel, soothes the rough spikes of panic and frustration down, gentle waves of deep water washing over him and putting out all the pain and the fire inside. “Who is she, John?”

And damned if Joseph isn’t _right_ again – knew just what the situation needed, knew just what to do, had the answer just like always – because those gentle words break through whatever madness Johnny’s falling down into, their baby brother’s big blue eyes flying up to lock – still clouded with pain and tears – onto Joe’s face. “ _Her._ ” He sobs at last, raw and open and hurting as a lost child. “The _Deputy_.”

Acid rises to the back of Jacob’s throat, and he sees the lines of Joe’s back tense up sharply before he turns all of his attention onto Johnny, terror filtering back into his mind as he scan over the wounds crossing his body, looking for whatever it is that the Resistance’s favorite psychopath has done to his baby brother to affect him like this. There’s a part of his mind scrambling, trying to process the insanity that Johnny’s been spouting and have it make sense with everything Jacob knows about the Deputy, trying to come up with some _reason_ why Johnny’s suddenly veered off into _this_ direction, why he’s so worked up and why he’s acting like there’s some connection between them and –

_“She has my Words.”_

And just like that, everything stops.

Jacob stares, cold and still as a corpse, at his brothers, brain skipping like a broken record as it tries to make sense of what John’s just said.

And between Jacob and John, within arm’s reach of them both, Joseph is just as still. Has _frozen_ in place, eyes fixed and intent on their baby brother for an agonizing eternity of seconds before finally – quiet and confused and sounding almost unintentional – he stutters out a disoriented little, “What…?”

“The Deputy,” John repeats, and the world stops again as, still frantic, _desperate_ , tears welling up in his big blue eyes, he stares up at them, as his hands _tremble_ in the air, outstretched towards Joseph to try and make him understand. “I _had_ her, the faithful had caught her, brought her to me. She was secured within my Gate and I was preparing to take her confession and I _saw_ them. _My Words_. _**Here**_.” His left hand flies up, pressing up against the ‘marked skin under Joseph’s left collarbone. “The ones I said to her at her baptism.” Deft fingers shiver against Joseph’s skin, like John’s searching for some kind of lifeline to ground him as the present, the new swell of tears flooding into his eyes visible for a moment before his head falls limply forward, body shaking painfully as his forehead presses down against his own hand and Joseph’s chest. “She has my Words, Joseph. And yours,” the admission comes out as the faintest whisper that’s still as loud as a peal of thunder in the graveyard stillness around them, Joseph going perfectly still, a trembling gasp ripped up from his throat and cut off immediately as John whispers, “from the church.” There’s a split-second of stillness before Joseph moves, slow and detached like he’s in a trance, lifting his hand to trace at the Words encircling Johnny’s left hand and wrist. He only just makes contact before Johnny’s surges again, head snapping up and feet tripping back like the touch has electrified him, baby blue eyes scanning the room frantically before landing on the still immobile Jacob. “And I didn’t look, didn’t see what they said, but she had…” Johnny’s eyes – impossibly wide and blazing with tears and emotion – burn through Jacob as his hand reaches back to clasp the back of his own neck, and the eldest Seed jolts like he’s been shot.

“She’s…” Joseph’s voice is distant, confused, almost dreamlike.

“She’s _ours_.” For a split second all the pain and loss melts away, John’s lips lifting in to a beautiful, broken smile and his left hand strokes gently over the inside of his right forearm – pushing back the fallen sleeve and tracing over the _inky black, **Resolved** Words_ there – tenderly. “You were _right_ , Joseph. _She’s **ours**_. She spoke to me,” John’s voice is soft and dreamy, “and I could feel _everything_. I hadn’t realized… realized _how much_ was missing.“ He looks up at them, eyes burning bright enough to make their usual religious fervor look tame, smile turning rapturous as he breathes, “She _spoke_ to me, and it was like _confessing_ for the first time – like a fire burning away everything wrong and meaningless and profane. Joseph,” he wheels on their brother suddenly, clasping hands on his shoulders as he shakes and shudders with new life, “Joseph _this_ is _it_ , _this_ is what we’ve been missing, what we’ve been _supposed_ to have all this time! She –” Suddenly, like someone’s flicked a switch, John changes. Goes deathly still, smile falling and falling as all the pain and heartbreak comes rushing back over him. John’s hands fall away from Joseph, and he doesn’t even seem to notice when their brother reaches for him, wheeling away abruptly and hands fisting violently into his hair. “I… I saw our Words… and I… I felt hers and I – I… I just wanted us to be…” He’s shaking, keening in the back of his throat as he rambles, voice thick with guilt and shame and _despair_ , “I was only gone for a few _minutes_! Just long enough to turn Deputy Hudson over to one of the faithful, but when I got back she –” The words cut off violently, morphing into an aborted _wail_ as John curls in on himself, hands racking downward to tear his nails into his Sin, knuckles going white as he tears through the still forming scabs, _snarling_ , “Why?! Why did I _leave_ her?! Why did… why…” He trails off, goes deathly still for a moment. Then, suddenly, Johnny looks up at them – expression lost and broken, tears streaming down his face. “Why did she leave me?”

Joseph’s moving, crossing the last bit of distance towards Johnny in a flash, but Jacob can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but stare as Joe wraps his arms around Johnny, kissing the top of his head and rocking him gently, murmuring soothingly into their baby brother’s ear. “It’s alright, it’s alright John. It’s going to be alright.” One hand stays in place, rubbing trails of comfort up and down Johnny’s back, keeping him nestled up against Joseph; the other glides around effortlessly, tugging bloody hands away from marred skin, cradling them, lifting them up for Joseph to sooth with loving kisses, and Johnny breaks down all over again from the tenderness. “You’ve done it.” Joe pulls their brother in closer, cradling him through the sobs and breathing into his hair. “You’ve found our _Angel_.”

John sobs again, shudders, blue eyes – flooded with tears and pain and shame – flying up and locking onto Joe’s as he tries to pull free from their soulmate’s comfort. “But she –”

Gentle hands come up to clasp John’s face, thumbs running over his cheeks and brushing away his tears as Joe stares down into his eyes. “She is _lost_ , John.” Joe sounds so _sad_ , like his heart is breaking into tiny pieces for ( _ **her** , their **enemy** , their **soulma-**_ ) The Deputy even as he speaks; but, even still, there’s a sudden surge of peace, of _certainty_ buoying his words up, the gentle power of his voice pulling everything in towards him, making him the center of gravity for all the world, driving everything else away as their attention focuses on Joseph and Joseph alone. Joseph doesn’t even seem to notice it, not really ( _and why **should** he, when he is and has always been the center of their worlds_). Instead he just holds Johnny’s eyes with his own, swallows up all the pain and despair in their baby brother and fills him back up with a _promise_. “She is lost and confused and afraid. She has been led astray. But it’s going to be alright.” Joseph lets the words hang in the air. Lets them sweep over his brothers – extending a hand for them to take, to follow him into peace and joy and paradise. Then, an utterly _rapturous_ smile spreading beatifically across his face, Joseph leans down and presses his forehead lovingly against Johnny’s – their spellbound brother gasping and mewling as he falls blissfully into the well of Joseph’s serene power. “We _will_ find her,” Joseph sighs into the silence, assurance and joy making his voice something ethereal, each syllable a prayer of thanksgiving in and of itself. “We will find her, and we will bring her home, safe and sound and cherished. And then,” the religious fire swells up into Joseph’s voice, sending waves of lightning and holy fire and pure blinding light shooting through them, crushing them under the sense of peace and relief and _triumph_ when all fears and doubts are washed away, when Joseph’s faith in his Voice is finally proven to be _right_ , John and Jacob shuddering helplessly as they’re drowned under the sheer, otherworldly _power_ of Joseph’s quiet little whisper. “We will be _together_ in Eden."

He can see Johnny shudder, hear him gasp softly. Then, with a sigh of utter _relief_ , Johnny’s head falls back down against Joe’s chest – all the tension bleeding out of their baby brother as he curls himself around Joe and lets himself be held, be swept away by the promise their soulmate offers. Arms still wrapped around Johnny – still rocking and soothing him – Joseph looks up at him from over John’s head, eyes bright and wet with tears of blind joy, smile perfect and beautiful, happier than Jacob’s seen in he doesn’t know how long.

Jacob stares back for a moment.

Then, feeling cold and numb as a corpse, he turns away from his little brothers and walks out of the house.

Distantly, he’s aware that he’s making his way through Joseph’s compound – faithful and disciples and cultists fleeing at the sight of him and cowering in his wake as he stalks aimlessly past buildings like a sleepwalker because…

The Deputy.

The Deputy is their soulmate.

The Deputy, who has been dismantling everything Jacob and his brothers have been striving towards, is the missing part of their soul.

The Deputy who Jacob wanted nothing more than to k-

Jacob’s mind freezes, acid rising up in the back of his mouth as his thoughts shudder and try to turn anywhere but where they were going. He tries to get himself under control, to marshal his thoughts. But, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop his mind from falling back into memories of what he’d been planning – been _wanting_ – to do to The… to _his_ –

 _”Oh, Jakey-boy,”_ a dry, rattling voice whispers suddenly into his ear, thick and oily with sick amusement, and Jacob flinches involuntarily, recoils from it even though he knows it’s pointless. And, as always, the voice just laughs at him, low and rattling and hungry. _“You really are just one **fucked up** son of a bitch, aren’t you?”_

He tastes acid again, mixing in with the sharp flood of copper from where his teeth are digging into the inside of his cheek.

The world spins around him, sights and sounds and smells flickering wildly, setting him in Joseph’s compound one second, then back up in the Whitetails the next, now wasting away under the Iraqi sun, now bleeding out on the floor of his foster parents barn, and on and on and on and –

His mind flashes back the first time he’d seen her, all those months ago in Joseph’s church, fighting down the fear beside Whitehorse and Marshal Burke. He sees her, sees the absolute _fear_ and _heartbreak_ that had warped that beautiful face – remembers how he’d _felt_ at seeing it, how he’d wanted _more_ of her fear and her pain – when Joseph had turned his attention towards… no. When Joseph _spoke_ to her. Spoke _to her_ for the first time. When he’d Resolved his Words on her.

She’d known. She’s known ever since. Known and…

He hadn’t known. _They_ hadn’t. Had never even guessed that she was…

 _Fuck_ , Jacob had… has…

He’d wanted to…

 _“You’re damaged goods, solider.”_ Rattling in his ear and nails scraping down his skin, sun and sand and scorching winds burning him alive and blood on his hands and slaking his withered throat and the taste of meatmeatmeatmeat _meat_ flooding his mouth. _“Should’ve just done right for once and -pop-!”_ A jab under his chin, a line straight up to his brain, cold and sharp and so familiar, so tempting. _“Made the world a better place. Not like anyone’d miss you. Hell,”_ another laugh, cutting lines along his skin and opening him up, making him flinch and shake like a well beaten dog. _“Even the rest of your soul’d probably be better off without you around to break things and fuck everything up. Probably wouldn’t even miss you. After all…”_ Don’t. Please don’t. Please. _“They’re probably used to you letting them down.”_ Please – _“To **abandoning** them.”_

He gags, eyes burning and hands shaking as John’s radio broadcast comes flooding back to mind – the wild, hysterical agony in his soulmate’s voice linking back to that day when Jacob had been taken from his brothers, the link looping around his throat and dragging him down down down into his memories again and he’s –

Standing in the gravel drive of his foster parents’ home, barely held up by the people who’d come to arrest him, listening to Johnny _screaming_ for him to stay, to _not leave_ them, and –

He’s never really remembered anything beyond that point, aside from trying to pull free and run to his brothers/soulmates/angels/only fucking reasons to _exist_. He’d ended up waking up in a hospital bed, one hand cuffed and a deputy standing guard outside the door. Jacob hadn’t been there long. The day after he woke up – four days after they’d taken him from the farm – some man in a suit had showed up alongside the sheriff. They’d asked for his side of the story and he’d told them – not seeing much point in lying or edging around the truth – and then he’d asked where his brothers were. He hadn’t bothered to try for any kind of legal defense. He’d thought – more than a little naively – that if he just cooperated then maybe that’d help get him back to his brothers faster. Instead the sheriff and the man in the suit had simply nodded, said nothing about his brothers, and left the room. The next thing Jacob knew he’d been sentenced and was being transferred to the medical wing at a juvenile detention facility. He’d done his best with what he’d been handed, tried and tried and tried to keep his head down and his temper under control, keeping Joe and Johnny in his mind and his heart and just tried to focus on getting _back_ to them. And then, finally, he’d served out his sentence and had the horrifying truth broken that the chances of ever seeing Joseph and John again were virtually nonexistent.

That bit of information had nearly killed him.

And maybe it should have – _maybe **he** should have_ – but instead he’d walked away from the plastic smile of the caseworker and out into the cold, cruel world that called him an adult, that took and took and took and wouldn’t even give him back to his soul, wouldn’t let him do what he was made for, and when someone somewhere put an army recruitment pamphlet into his too big and too strong and too idle hands he hadn’t been able to think of a reason to refuse. He’d left Georgia behind, threw himself into the military, hoping to forget that in trying to save his little brothers – his _reasons_ , his _soulmates_ – he’d just _abandoned_ them to the big, ugly world. Hoping to lose himself in the childish hope that they’d be alright on their own, without him. Hoping that he would…

He’d survived.

Survived everything the world threw at him, survived when others hadn't, survived when he fucking _shouldn't have_ , and more than two decades later someone had knelt down at his feet on the filthy floor of some dilapidated shelter, reached for him with gentle hands, and he’d looked up into the loving eyes of his Joseph and John.

They’d looked for him. Found him. _Forgiven_ him for his betrayal – his _abandonment_ – and let him back into their light again. They’d given him his purpose back, had pulled him into their arms and poured themselves into him, taking all the shards and pieces into their hands and making something almost _whole_.

They’d saved him.

But even with that salvation… even now, even having them _back_ , even with all the promises and reassurances of their love and their devotion and their _forgiveness_ … even now the sounds of Johnny’s screams as he was dragged away all those years ago, the sounds of loss and agony and abandonment, the sounds of his baby angel’s heart being ripped apart… even now they echo somewhere in the back of his mind.

He mind turns the event of the day over and over, raw and agonized at hearing all that pain in Johnny’s voice again.

Because, for a second time, one of Johnny’s soulmates _abandoned_ him.

 _“Heartbreaking.”_ The voice scoffs in his ear, the sensation of something sharp and dry running across his scalp. Jacob twitches away from it, biting down another surge of nausea, and hears the dark chuckle again, followed by a flood of poison sweet and paper-thin sympathy. _“Now… why do you think she’d go and do a thing like that? Hmm?”_ There’s a moment of stillness, the blatantly false sympathy hanging in the air and crawling over his skin like maggots. Then, low and thick with deep seated fury and hatred, the voice hisses out into his ear. _“You don’t think she’s got some idea of what you and your little brothers really are, do you? What you’ve done to them? What you’ve let happen to them? What you’ve let them **do**? Or, hell, do you think it could it be the sweet nothings you boys have – and will – whispered onto her?”_ The voice sharpens to a knife’s point and slides torturously slow into him in a soft little sigh, _“Or maybe… it’s that she’s got an idea of some of the fucked up things that you’ve been **fantasizing** about doing to her.”_

Jacob barely chokes down a surge of vomit, eyes squeezing shut as his entire body locks itself down. Shaking, choking, he reaches out blindly and – by some impossible chance – his hands find purchase on a wooden crate, his fingers curling violently against its surface as he rests his weight against it and tries to breathe.

Tries to shut out the rasping voice and rattling laughter in his ear.

 _“Yeah, that’d be pretty bad, wouldn’t it? Especially given what a dark, **diseased** imagination you’ve got, huh Jake?”_ Something clammy skims against his ear, dry heat gusting over his skin with each vicious sigh. _“All the times you’ve dreamed about getting your big old hands on that sweet little girl and…”_

Skeletal fingers skim over his hands, and when he reflexively jerks away he brushes off of the wooden crate and against reams of thick paper, sending whatever was on the crate scattering and rustling through the air.

Another peal of rattling laughter cuts through him, sharp bone chasing after his hands, biting down into his skin and pinning him in place. Then, abruptly, the pain retreats. _“Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”_ He feels the cold touch on his hands edge away, feels the flutter of paper under his fingertips, and once again the easily drawling voice dips down into something hateful and cruel. _“Pity she had to get stuck with a fucking psychopath like you.”_

Jacob’s eyes snap open, involuntarily, and he finds himself staring down at the scattered pages of newly printed wanted posters.

His soulmate stares back up at him.

The world freezes again as he stares down at the image. He sees the beautiful face and lithely powerful body – _breaking it down **slowly** with his own two hands, then sitting back and **watching** as his Judges tear into it, render the person down to **meat**_ – and the plaited red hair – _tangling his hands in it, helping John shove and hold her down beneath the surface of the water, drinking in every twitch and struggling and smothered scream until there **nothing** left but satisfaction and **relief**_ – and the big green eyes – _clamping his hands around the pretty throat and wrenching the head back, holding fast and waiting and watching as Joseph steps close, serene and freed from his doubts, and sets his thumbs against those bright eyes, driving them up and up and **up**_ – and she’s just _so_ –

It’s an excellent picture.

He’s not entirely sure _who_ got it, or – more importantly – how they _survived_ getting it, but the picture _had_ to have been taken within spitting distance of the Deputy. And the thing is…

The thing is that she doesn’t look anything like the propaganda that’s sprung up about her throughout Eden’s Gate. She doesn’t look like _Wrath_ – some slavering, rabid monster, too stained with sin to be human anymore. She doesn’t look empty – a hollow, mindless vessel for violence, little more than a breathing weapon. She doesn’t look the Resistance’s puppet – a small, scared, stupid child who’s content to slaughter and destroy at the whims of her puppeteers. No. No she looks…

She looks utterly _done_ with everything.

The picture must’ve been taken almost immediately after she noticed the photographer’s presence, because she’s just staring directly into the camera, her face a perfect storm of incredulity and annoyance and exasperation. The woman on the poster is staring out at the world, bloodied and bruised and unbroken, expression screaming “Are you fucking _serious_ right now?”

She looks _tired_.

She looks _wounded_.

She looks so fucking _young_.

Jacob stares at the picture, feels the full weight of her gaze on him – like he’s face to face with the actual Deputy herself. Feels the weariness and the accusation weighing down on his shoulders and his heart and his soul, swears he can almost _hear_ a voice – impossible, so impossible, he’s never heard her voice before, she’s made _damn_ sure of that – whispering “What _now_ ” at him, all broken down and tired and _hurt_. Swears he can hear a plaintive, hollow voice crawling over him as it begs, “ _Why?_ ”

He stares back into the image’s eyes, twenty-two years – _twenty-two, she’s just **twenty-two**_ – worth of apologies and regrets and pointless snatches of prayer flooding through him.

_I’m sorry, you don’t deserve this, I never wanted this for you, I’d take it all back, take it all away if I could, I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger, I’m sorry I’m not **better** , I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, you all deserve so much more, so much better, you should all be happy, be **whole** , I ruined everything, I wasn’t good enough, I’m too fucking **weak** , I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m –_

The hateful, rattling laugh rings out again, cutting through his rush of regret and lancing through him like a hail of bullets. From the corner of his burning eyes he sees the figure start to move, pulling away from him and slowly rounding the crate that’s holding Jacob up, laughing all the way. He knows what’s coming. Wants to close his eyes against it, block it all out, make everything just _go away_ for once.

But he doesn’t.

Can’t.

He doesn’t deserve the respite.

All he can do is stare down at the heartbreaking – _heartbroken_ – image of his soulmate. The woman who he and his brothers – his soulmates, _her_ soulmates – have failed to recognize, have wronged and hounded and tortured and _hated_. The woman who learned who and what they were, who _knew_ them, and who made their complete destruction her purpose. He stares down at the only possible result of all his life’s faults and failings, embodied in a battered and blood-stained little lamb – the innocent sacrifice who will pay ( _has paid, **is paying**_ ) for all Jacob’s sins.

He stares and stares and stares, and a pair of skeletal hands rest on top of his own, dripping blood down onto the image of his undeserving soulmate.

 _“Oh Jake,”_ Miller laughs at him, teeth flashing out from his desiccated face, skeletal fingers running over his skin like a swarm of insects, hungry and hateful and finally satisfied. _“You **really** deserve this.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Self-loathing, Self-harm, Possessive/Obsessive/Unhealthy behavior, Codependency, Allusions to/mild description of cannon-compliant child abuse, Suicidal Thoughts/Feelings, Hallucinations and/or Haunting, Allusions to cannon-compliant cannibalism, Mild Dissociative Episode, Violent Thoughts/Fantasies, and Extremely Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms. Or, as I call it, The Seeds.
> 
> _Alternate titles for this work include: "Robin Baird Deserves None of This (But it Happens Anyway)," "Jacob Seed is a Horrible Person (And So Are His Brothers)," and "The Many Issues and Poor Life Decisions of Jacob Seed (Featuring His Equally Horrible and Culpable Brothers, His Numerous Regrets, His Ghosts [both figurative and possibly literal], and Robin Who Deserves None of This." I kind of felt like any of those would be a little too long, though._
> 
> _Yeah, things aren't going so great for Mr. Herald Ginger Wolfman. One might argue that he deserves it. In fact, one probably **should** argue that he deserves it. Largely because he does, in fact, deserve it._
> 
> _Well, hope y'all enjoyed this latest foray into the effed-up madness that is the life of Jacob Seed. See you next week!_
> 
> _**\- EDIT -**_  
>  _Y'ALL!!! We've got **fanart**!!! British+Assistant did an interpretation of Robin's wanted poster from the end of the chapter, and it's... it's... **EEEEEEEEEE**! *trails off in happy dolphin noises* Seriously, it's amazing, I am so over the moon with this, go check it out! *dances off into the void, squeeing incomprehensibly*_  
> https://www.deviantart.com/britishassistant/art/Junior-Deputy-Robin-Baird-784991222  
>  
> 
> _Title comes from "I Started a Joke" by The Bee Gees. Because irony, karma, and regrets, and because you **know** that giant nerd listens to them when no one's around._


	13. I Tried to Hold These Secrets Inside Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hey everyone, sorry about the delay! I had a slight issue where the inspiration/decision to expand upon and reorganize some stuff in this chapter and the next (which used to be the same chapter, actually) ran up against some work and health issues, and my schedule got thrown a little out of whack. Hopefully won't happen again._

Without Faith around to motivate the crazy people and ruin everyone else’s day, cleaning up Henbane barely takes any time at all.

Helping matters, and remaining inordinately creepy, is the Peggies’ continued refusal to seriously hurt Robin. Which, obviously, she takes _immense_ advantage of, especially once her arm heals up enough that she can actually _work_ again. It pisses her friends off something awful, and she’s got a growing collection of physical and mental scars thanks to the Peggies who are a little slow on the uptake, but if that’s the only cost of keeping other people safe? Well then, the world can call her aegis and learn to be ok with it.

It’s _tactical_ , damn it, she knows what she’s doing.

So people can stop it with the sad and concerned faces already.

Anyway.

So she throws herself at the last Peggy strongholds, throws herself in front of her people when things go pear-shaped, throws up annoyed looks and middle fingers at anyone who dares mention ‘unhealthy coping mechanisms’ or ‘reckless disregard for her own wellbeing’ or _especially_ ‘self-harm,’ throws a few dozen Mollotovs at the remaining Bliss fields, and one day they collectively realize that… they did it.

They’ve taken Henbane back.

It actually takes a while for that to start sinking in, and even then everyone kind of thinks it might just be a collective Bliss hallucination.

It’s almost anticlimactic – everyone too shocked and taken off guard by it to really celebrate. Hell, you’d almost think they’d _lost_ from the way a lot of people react: breaking down, sobbing, staring blankly with dead eyes, curling up together and doing everything shy of physically shaking into little pieces.

They’ve been fighting so hard for so long, and now they’ve finally won and its hitting them that no one _actually_ believed they’d do it.

Then, just as everyone’s about to lose their shit entirely, Adelaide “Oh Sweetie, I’m the _Queen_ Bitch” Drubman stands up, lifts a glass in the air, and informs the entire Hope County Jail that they are going to _fucking **celebrate**_. And say what you want about the people of Hope County, they do _not_ need to be told to celebrate _twice_.

So they do. They throw one _hell_ of a shindig, get ridiculously drunk, have lots and lots of _holy- **shit** -we’re-not-dead_ sex, and – up on the roof, under the stars, keeping watch with Grace and Whitehorse and a handful of the other mostly sober people – Robin lets herself breathe and tries not to think about what’ll come next.

And then the sun comes up again, everyone either sobers all the way up or curls up and curses their poor impulse control and life choices, and anyone who’s able gears back up and gets back to work. Because there’s still Peggies and Bliss and Beasties in Henbane, little scattered cells and holdouts, like so many Lego pieces lost in shag carpeting. Because Holland Valley and the Whitetails are still occupied – everyone’s friends and families and neighbors still fighting for their lives in those regions – and everyone in Henbane is still very aware that a counterattack could come at any time and undo all their work. And because, by this point, no one really knows what else to _do_.

Well. _Almost_ no one.

Robin knows _exactly_ what she _should_ be doing now that Henbane’s free.

She just… _really_ doesn’t want to do it.

And, as it turns out, everyone around her is a _terrible_ enabler.

Every time she turns around somebody’s got a job for her; something vital that needs to get done _now_ and get done by _her_. _Some_ of it she buys – a drugged up Judge bear ( _fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucking why?!_ ) that’s pretty much within her actual job description by this point. Likewise, others are fairly reasonable – rounding up stray Angels who, while largely passive these days, still occasionally rage out and are a bit beyond the average Cougar’s skill set but well within hers. There’s stuff that they _do_ need all hands on deck for, if not necessarily _her_ hands – shoring up the Jail, fixing up buildings to be habitable again, setting up actual fortifications and roadblocks for if the Peggies decide to ignore the time honored rule of No-Takesies-Backsies. Then there’s some stuff they need that _anyone_ could do – hunting, fishing, herb gathering, and other general resource and supply runs. 

And _then_ there’s shit that’s _transparently_ just an excuse to keep her in Henbane. Random deliveries. Random errands. Random “oh no, I’ve misplaced my… towels; yeah, my towels, that’s it, the Peggies took them and I need them back, my towels, there’s… seven of them and I need them desperately, don’t ask why, just please find the- what, no, Whitehorse didn’t put me up to this, honestly, no Tracey Lader didn’t either and… Virgil… no, no Virgil didn’t – no really, I need those towels, please find them, _please_ stop looking at me like that.”

It’s almost as touching as it is painful and embarrassing.

And it’s not that Robin doesn’t get it, and it’s not that she doesn’t _genuinely_ appreciate it. And, in all honesty, she lets it play for _much_ longer than she really should. But… it can’t last. She’s just turned out to be _too good_ at ruining Eden’s Gate’s day to waste her time on random make-work _bullshit_ in Henbane when there’s still _genuine_ bullshit that needs doing in Holland Valley and the Whitetails. And no matter how much no one wants to admit it, everyone knows it.

She earned herself a reprieve, no one’s contesting that (hell, this time even _she’ll_ admit it) but…

She’s scared. She’s so fucking scared. But she also knows that that fear isn’t going to be able to suppress the _guilt_ of hiding away and doing nothing while people get hurt. At least not for all that much longer.

The problem, however, is that everyone around her has worked that out too. And it doesn’t take long for Robin to realize that all the fetch-quests are just the tip of the iceberg.

They’re hiding things from her.

She’s admittedly a little slow on the uptake to start, though – in her undeserved defense – she’d initially thought that people were just pretending they hadn’t been talking about her, and she’s long since gotten used to that. It’s after she distinctly catches the word “Holland” – said low and horrified – followed by a panicked chorus of shushes that she starts catching on. From that point it’s like a dam’s burst, and every time she turns around she’s catching snatches of news – all bad – from the other regions. There’s never enough information – people keep spotting her too quickly (and isn’t that just wild; she can reliably get the drop on Peggies in three counties but when it comes to her own people it’s like she’s trying to sneak up on Batman all of a sudden) – to get a good grip on any one incident, but all the little fragments form themselves into an ever clearer mosaic. And she damn well doesn’t like the picture.

Maybe it’s losing Faith, maybe it’s losing Henbane and the Bliss, maybe it’s – fuck… maybe it’s her. Whatever the cause, the Peggies have gone full-frontal _bugnuts_ on Hope County.

From what she’s gleaned it seems likely that – at the current rate – there may not be much Hope County _left_ soon.

Eden’s Gate is digging their claws into what they’ve got, grabbing desperately for what they haven’t got, and _burning_ anything they can’t get.

And Robin’s collecting towels.

Like an asshole.

And the worst part is that no matter how much it’s slowly _killing_ her (like arsenic in her soul, slowly spreading and burning and decaying her an inch at a time, poisoning and rotting her from the inside out) to not jump in the middle of all that she… she can’t…

She’s scared.

So she stays put, she runs around doing errands and collecting stupid fucking towels, and she sinks deeper and deeper into the fear and shame and the steady undercurrent of helpless rage.

And it is in this mood that Robin ends up wrestling Hurk to the ground and ripping answers from his unwilling lips.

Metaphorically speaking. He doesn’t actually make her go _that_ far for answers.

Though if he _did_ she totally _could_.

Anyway.

The stars align just right, Robin and Boomer swinging back by the jail with a fish delivery just as Hurk – who’s been doing stuff of an undisclosed nature over in Holland Valley with Nick and Cheeseburger – shows up, playing delivery boy for Pastor Jerome under Cheeseburger’s supervision. Under normal circumstances – and, again, _**normal**_ – that’d be a good thing. As it is, Robin finds out about Hurk’s presence almost immediately after hearing a snatch of conversation that…

She keeps it together, or at least does her best. And, hey, maybe she’s actually becoming a better liar at long last, because when she grabs Hurk and drags him up to the roof for some Cheap Beer and Chillax time no one stops her or tries to chaperone them (which honestly, they _really_ should, come on people). Of course it’s just as likely that everyone’s just gotten used to her looking strained and wired and frayed to fuck, so they don’t register her current turmoil as anything out of the new norm. Actually it’s probably _more_ likely. Yeah, fine, ok, it’s probably that. Damn everything. Hurk doesn’t suspect anything thought, so at least her on-going trauma’s good for something.

He’s headed towards a lawn chair (roof chair now) and is cracking open a beer, chattering away at a million miles an hour about something inane and non-incriminating (well, non-incriminating in their _current_ world, anyways; in the world before Eden’s Gate Deputy Robin Baird of the Hope County Sheriff’s Department would probably have had a _great_ legal interest in his story, to say nothing of INTERPOL and very probably PETA) when Robin puts down the beer he’d handed her – _unopened_ –on an AC unit and launches her attack. “Hurk.”

He freezes, midword and can halfway to his lips, eyes going startled-deer wide as they fix on her – a wild animal suddenly realizing it’s run into an apex-predator at the watering hole and only one of them’s there for a drink.

It’s not fair, it’s not nice, and it’s damned well not something she’d normally ever even _think_ about doing to a friend. But things _aren’t_ normal – not even their new fucked up normal, that at least occasionally allows for little things like manners and consideration and fucking standards – and she _**needs**_ answers. And, like it or not (she _doesn’t_ , fuck everything in general and her in particular and the Seeds most of all, she fucking _doesn’t_ like it _at all_ ), Hurk’s her best shot at getting those answers ( _Sorry Bromigo_ ). So shoving her wants and her guilt and her tattered remnants of standards way deep down – somewhere nearby to where she’s put her hopes and dreams and Thou Shalt Not Kill – she focuses on the _**need**_ , on the sickly swell of terror and helplessness and _loss_ that’s been growing inside her ever since she heard the latest cut-off bit of news that everyone’s keeping from her For Her Own Good, digs in hard and stares into Hurk’s scared and cornered and guilty eyes, and she asks. 

“Hurk… what happened to Nick?”

Any color left in Hurk’s face drains out, a full-bodied flinch running through him and his head jerking like he’d duck it if her eyes weren’t holding him in place. After a second his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. Finally, after cycling through mouth-open mouth-closed enough times to qualify for a fish-impression, her resident demolition and heavy-ordinance expert shakes himself once – hard enough to send half his beer flying from its crumpling can – and somehow gets himself together enough to force a painfully false smile at her. “Nick’s fine.” The smile barely outlasts the lie, Hurk flinching violently backwards from whatever he sees in her eyes. For another few seconds the rooftop is painfully quiet, the sounds of everyday life coming from down below only serving to highlight the tension that’s building and building to lethality between the two of them. Then, at long last, Hurk heaves a heavy sigh and just _drops_ – his head lolling forwards and shoulders curling in, one hand coming up to run over his face as he breathes and trembles before finally – _finally_ – raising his head again to look up at her with exhausted, guilt-ridden eyes. “Nick…” his voice is low and raw, soft, devoid of all his usual boisterousness and vigor, unsettlingly flat and so damn _tired_ , “ _will be_ fine.” He sighs again, eyes falling from her face and down to the rooftop, tears and shame burning behind them. “In a little bit.”

The tiniest bit of fear evaporates, just barely enough that Robin can make her voice work again. “What happened?”

Hurk’s still not looking at her, eyes fixed down where he’s making circles on the roof dirt with the toe of his boot. “Peggies.” He murmurs, after a few seconds, voice still choked up a little with shame. “They… we fought ‘em off.” He flinches a little, “Eventually.” His shoulders curl in further, the can in his big hand crumpling up to nothing as he shakes and trembles, and _finally_ he looks back up to her, an entire world of guilt in his eyes, looking to her and not daring to beg for forgiveness. “He’s… kinda busted up.”

Robin’s stomach heaves, her mind reeling as all sorts of potential injuries flash through it, a flood of what-ifs with Nick Rye’s stupid, wonderful face attached. She swallows roughly, her spit sour all the way down to her churning guts, and makes her voice stay calm and level – _not your fault, Hurk, it’s not your fault (it’s **mine** , I should have been there_) – and her eyes soft. “Did he… was he in the plane when –”

“No!” Hurk jumps in fast, panic cutting through the guilt as he rushes to cut off that thought, to reassure her – and very probably to stop them _both_ from imagining what would come from something like _that_. “No, he…” Hurk trails off, chewing at his lip a little as the flash of panic fades, guilt and… and a very profound _tension_ returning as he quietly hems and haws for a moment. 

Unbidden, the sickly curl of fear and guilt and… ok, and muted _betrayal_ starts rising back up inside Robin; the bugs-under-her-skin feel that’s been coming more and more frequently as people keep her out of the loop, the understanding that they’re trying to keep her safe but the unshakable feeling that her people _don’t **trust her**_ anymore. “Hurk,” she almost cringes at the sound of her own voice, and her friend _does_ , all the turmoil and tension built up too high for her to keep it in all the way, making her words tremble even as she tries desperately to keep her shit together and just barely manages to whisper, “ _please._ ” Hurk looks like he’s going to be sick, her pleading and obvious desperation very definitely clashing with whatever marching orders everyone’s agreed on, all topped off with the memories of whatever he’s just come off of that left Nick out of commission and a oppressive mantle of raw _guilt_ weighing the cheeriest of their number down. Part of Robin is screaming at her to stop, just stop, stop doing this to Hurk already, leave him the hell _alone_ and stop straining his loyalties like this. And she’d really, really, _really_ like to listen to that voice. But she’s Nick’s friend too. So instead she makes herself meet his eyes – makes _him_ meet _her_ eyes – and _begs_. “Come on, man, just… just tell me.” Her eyes are burning – _stop it, damn it!_ – and his are all watery and the whole situation’s just getting more and more horrible, and she can feel herself about to pansy out so she doesn’t risk taking a breath and… “What happened?”

Silence falls over the roof again.

Hurk’s staring at her like he wants to look away but _can’t_ , shoulders rolled in painfully tight like he’s trying to make himself disappear, skin bleached out with emotion – fear and shame and pain and betrayal and guilt – and every muscle tensed so tight he might just snap. 

And then, just when the silence has gone on so long Robin can feel a scream building up in her throat, clawing its way up just to break the damn silence…

Hurk shudders (an involuntary motion like air being let suddenly out of a beach ball), drops his head, slowly brings one hand up to scrub through his hair, and he speaks. “The Peggies… they…” All the life – all the _Hurk_ – has gone out of his voice, the words dull and flat and hollow like they’re being dragged out of a corpse. “It was pretty late at night and…” He trails off into silence again. Then, finally, he sighs again – tired and worn down and (for the first time since she’s known him) seeming near his age – and looks up at her with haunted, tear bright eyes. “They hit the airfield –”

The world stops.

Robin tastes acid in her mouth again, white noise in her ears and white light burning through her eyes like she was at ground zero for a flashbang. “Kim…” There’s a slick sheen of sweat over her entire body, cold and sick as it soaks up through her clothes, images flashing in the white of what the Peggies might have done to her friend, to her _family_ , to Kim and to… to… “ _Carmy_ –”

Hurk’s great big hand closes down on hers, jolting her up and out of the panic she’s drowning in, his other hand closing a second later on her shoulder and squeezing tight until the white clears out from around her and she’s looking up into his face. “They’re fine!” There’s an echo of the horror she’d just felt in Hurk’s face, deep down in his eyes, and she _knows_ that most of the same thoughts must have been plaguing him ever since this whole whatever in the hell happened went down, all the unspeakable what-ifs and could-have-beens that you can only learn to fear when you’ve been living in Hell-on-Earth. Hurk’s hands are squeezing tighter – are probably going to leave a bruise or two at this point – though whether it’s from him trying to reach her or from those sick thoughts or some combination of the two she wouldn’t be able to say. Whatever the reason it only last for another second, only until she gets enough control back of her body to squeeze his hand back, taking comfort and giving it back all at once, and she watches as a tiny bit of the hell in Hurk’s eyes fades away. His grip relaxes – just a bit, just enough to not bruise her further – and _somehow_ he manages to put on a shaky, borderline triumphant smile. “Totally fine, not even scratched.” The smile hangs on his face for a second before it starts fraying at the edges. “They… they’re stayin’ in Fall’s End now, with Mary May.” He shrugs and widens his smile, trying for casual and hitting something else entirely; and he realizes it too, the forced cheer shaking and wavering and then slowly deflating again until he slumps down, half sitting and half collapsing on the edge of the AC unit next to them, tiredness radiating off every bit of him as his eyes drop like stones back down to the gravel under their feet. “Just for a bit.”

The fear of what might have happened – at least the worst of it – is slowly bleeding out of Robin. Unfortunately, that just means that the fear of _why_ it happened – of what the _cause_ might have been for what happened – is ramping back up, spurred on by the fact that she fundamentally _still_ doesn’t _know anything_. Spurred on by the sick suspicion that, deep down, she actually _does_ know the why of it all.

But.

But her friend is very rapidly losing it in front of her, crushing under the weight of… of _everything_ so badly she can watch it happen step by step.

And that’s at least something she can actually _do something_ about.

So, still feeling sick and scared and cold and confused, Robin snags two more beers from the cooler Hurk’d lugged up with them – and, really, one of the great mysteries of Hope County at the present moment has _got_ to be how there are still so many of these things _left_ , _especially_ given the rate everyone’s been going through them – and plops herself down next to him.

He takes the beer without even looking at it, opens it mechanically and then… then he just… holds it. Cradles the cheap aluminum between his hands while he stares blankly off across the roof.

Robin pops her beer open in turn, and likewise doesn’t lift it up. Just kind of leans against him, shoulder to shoulder, the warmth and the pressure pushing at the feelings of fear and cold detachment. The warmth and the pressure when Hurk leans back pushing it far enough away that suddenly they’re both able to breathe.

They sit there for a few minutes – silent and staring and holding their sweating, gradually warming beers.

“We’d been doin’ some stuff for the Pastor and Mary May,” Hurk finally says at last, voice still low and tired as it breaks through the tentative silence. “Recon stuff, y’know? Nick gettin’ the bird’s-eye and me makin’ sure no one fucked with him.” He huffs a little laugh all of a sudden, still tired but actually sounding a little more like _Hurk_. “And Cheeseburger makin’ sure no one fucked with me.” Despite everything Robin feels herself smile too, a sudden rush of warmth and _relief_ that, at the _absolute_ least, her people – all of her people, even the ones who legally aren’t – are looking out for each other when she’s not there to do it. The little bubble of warmth doesn’t last, though. There’s only a few seconds of it before she feels Hurk start to stiffen again, the bulk of his shoulder and arm going all quivery tense where it’s pressed against hers. “And once we finished up Nick figured… he figured ‘hey, what the hell, we’re in Holland and we’ve got a little time so let’s go see my family,’” Hurk’s voice cracks a little on the word. “They were so _happy_.” His eyes are staring far off into the distance now, his hand shaking a little, and his voice is so… “So excited for Nick to be home. Kim couldn’t stop smilin’ for a second and Carmy…” he huffs another laugh, this one much less bright and much more watery, “little girl was just _chatterin’_ away, wanted to tell him _everythin’_ that’d been happenin’ and how happy they were that Daddy was home and could they play together and maybe the Uncle Cheeseburger and Uncle Hurk could play too... I mean…” he shrugs a little against her shoulder, one hand scratching at the back of his neck, “I mean she didn’t _actually_ say any of that. ‘Cause, y’know, she’s a baby and she can’t talk yet. But,” there’s a long, low sigh, and for the first time in minutes Hurk’s head swings around just enough to look at her again, “you could just _tell_ that’s what she was sayin’ to him. Y’know?”

Robin swings her head around too, a wan little smile pulling at her lips. “She is very good at making herself be understood.”

“Hell yeah she is, absolute _genius_ that girl.” Another flash of warmth passes, fading out slowly and leaving more cold in its place as Hurk’s eyes go distant once again. “Everythin’ was fine, and it was actually _quiet_ , and we figured… figured it’d be ok to stay the night. To just take some time and let Nick be with his family. And then,” something cold and hard slips into Hurk’s voice, shooting all the way up and into his eyes, “in the middle of the night I wake up with Cheeseburger pushin’ me off the Ryes’ couch.”

She doesn’t need to say anything. But she does anyway. “Peggies.”

Lips curl back from Hurk’s teeth, a gesture so damn close to what she’s used to on him that when it fails to become a smile it makes her head spin a little. “Fuckin’ assholes came swarmin’ us like _roaches_. Like… like it was a zombie movie or somethin.’ And we all woke up quick enough to hold ‘em off – and _shit_ , Kim’s… Kim’s somethin’ else with a gun, like… _damn_.” His eyes flick back her way, “You’d’ve been so damn _proud_. And Nick had his radio on him, obviously, so he called in to Fall’s End for some back-up. But…” The guilt twists its way back up into Hurk’s face, shame tugging at his head until it drops back down like a beaten dog. “There were so many of ‘em, the guns weren’t hackin’ it, and…” His skin’s going an ashy, waxy gray, hands trembling and eyes going big as he stares into the past. “I coulda _helped_. Coulda cleared those assholes right on out with a few rounds. But… I just… I couldn’t stop thinkin’ that… gunshots are bad enough, but…” his lips twitch, working soundlessly, present guilt running up against flashback fear, slowing his mind and closing his throat until he can just barely choke out, “but you shouldn’t have explosions goin’ off by a baby.” All the tremors die away, and the next words whisper out so quietly she can barely hear them. “It’s bad for their ears.”

Robin’s stomach heaves up into her throat, eyes burning and heart squeezing with pain and understanding as she reaches down and gets a grip on his forearm. “Hurk –”

“I _froze_.” His eyes are meeting hers all of a sudden, raw and serious and hemorrhaging guilt. “Froze up and couldn’t do _shit_ and next thing I know Nick’s on the ground and…” Hurk trails off again, gritting his teeth and breathing through them like _he’s_ the one who’s been downed, visions of the attack flashing clear as day behind his too serious eyes. Then, abruptly, he _laughs_ – the sound harsh and rough and sickly slick with self-loathing. “It was the damn bear that saved us, in the end.” A touch of savage satisfaction twists his frozen grin. “Better than a dozen men, right?” The grin sharpens, twists with disgust, “Better than _one_ man, anyway.” He barks another laugh, cuts her off the second she opens her mouth to protest, shakes his head and just charges right on ahead. “He just finally seemed to lose his _shit_ and went tearin’ through the Peggies like it was nothin’ at all. Gave us a window and we took it. Got the hell out of there and made it back to Fall’s End.” He shakes again, the bulk of the self-recrimination and disgust falling back beneath the surface (though she doesn’t believe for a damn _second_ that it’s going properly _away_ ), and leans forward to brace his forearms on his knees , rolling the beer between his hands almost compulsively. “They got Nick patched up alright, set him and Kim and Carmy up with Mary May, and got a buncha people out to see about getting the Ryes’ place back.” Not that the Ryes were likely to go _back_ there anytime soon, goes unsaid between them. “And…” his voice shakes a little, that one little syllable hanging trembling in the air for a second, before Hurk shakes himself yet again, straights up a little, and turns to her with a grin full of forced cheer, a mask of his usual self tacked up over the wreck that he currently is. “That’s it.”

Robin stares back at him, eyes burning and a scream built up in her throat and trying very hard not to puke. There’s… there’s too much. Too much… she _can’t_ … She doesn’t have the _damnedest_ clue of what to start in on _first_ , of what she can _possibly_ do to make _any_ of it better. “I don’t…” Her throat closes around the words, which is just as well because her brain’s frozen in place, unable to process everything and come up with a plan, the damn Eternal Bluescreen of the Fucked Up Mind. 

Her friend’s hurting. Is tearing himself up inside, beating himself bloody, all for the crime of being a human being. He’s _hurting_ and he _shouldn’t_ be, and she needs to _fix_ it.

And somehow, even knowing all that, what ends up coming out of her mouth is, “Why now?” And maybe she could leave it there, could backtrack, change the subject, be a _good friend_ to a good friend that _needs_ one right now. But the second the words come out she sees Hurk flinch, sees a new flicker of tension and guilt in him, and the bottom of her stomach drops out entirely. Her lips keep moving, her voice uncannily soft and even in her pounding ears, and with each word she sees the tension in him grow. “They’ve left the Ryes’ place alone all this time, why try for it again _now_?”

She feels him tense even further, sees his eyes dart around to anywhere but at her, and the suspicion and fear surges back up until she’s dizzy from it.

“Hurk?”

He flinches once more, so hard it almost looks like he’s been shot. Then he freezes in place, every muscle locked up too tight to even tremble. “There’s been…” The words come out harsh and strangled, like they’re forcing themselves between his thinned lips. His lips work silently again, jaw so tense it probably hurts, before he mutters out, “The Peggies have been goin’ after… some people.”

She feels cold. “Who?”

Another moment of silence hangs in the air. Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, Hurk gives a full bodied tremble and _slumps_ forward again, all the energy going out of him and leaving an empty husk. “First was Luke Cooke, over at US Auto. They thought it was just a raid at first, didn’t realize the Peggies were actually after anyone in particular until they’d already almost chased ‘em off.” He sounds so damn quiet, so _defeated_. Robin’d be utterly horrified by that if she wasn’t too busy being horrified by what he was admitting. “Then they went after Wendell Redler.” A ghost of a smile crosses his face, as savage as when he’d talked about Cheeseburger tearing through the Peggies. “That didn’t really go well for ‘em. Tough old bastard.” He sighs quietly, words slowly picking up the pace now that the first admissions have been thrown into the air. “Then it was George Wilson and Doc Perkins up in the Whitetails. They both got out all right. Same when the Peggies hit Clagget Bay,” a very nearly genuine smile plays over his face, “Skylar pulled a you and swam for Dutch’s island.” The smile fades back away. “They hit there too. Not really sure who they were lookin’ for in particular, if anyone; but they got pushed back outta there pretty quick.” He barks a mirthless little laugh, “Dutch’s people have _dug in_ over there, and they’re _crazy_.”

Robin can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t actually process what all he’s saying. All she can do is _stare_ at him, feeling colder and colder with each ripped out admission of… of… “Hurk…”

“Nadine Abercrombie’s missing.” 

The world falls out underneath her.

Hurk sighs, long and low, running one hand up and over his face. “No one’s seen or heard from her and her place is…”

She barely hears him, isn’t sure if he says anything after, everything drifting away like she’s back in the Bliss, the world going hollow and distant as she falls and falls and falls and –

“ _Rob…!_ ”

The sudden cry jolts through her stupor, cutting through the fog and down into the part of her that’s long since been conditioned to Jump To, to Prepare Herself, to damn well _Fight_. The battle-trance only lasts a second, just long enough for her to take in her surroundings and get confused that nothing’s trying to kill her. 

That’s when she realizes that she’s not on the AC unit with Hurk anymore.

She turns away from the ladder, turns back to where Hurk’s standing and staring at her, wide eyed with fear and concern and…

Her stomach turns, even as her head is swimming with a disorienting mix of fear and confusion, of shame and betrayal and _rage_.

“I’m taking the bear.” Her voice cuts across the roof, soft and steady and even and everything she doesn’t remotely feel at the moment. “And the dog. We’re going for a walk.” 

And then, whether it’s from the raw pain on her friend’s face and in his eyes, or it’s the way she feels so damn small and scared and vulnerable, or it’s the barely hanging on little piece of _human_ left inside her fucked up mind and soul _screaming_ at her to not leave him like this, Robin moves again. It only takes a second to cross the roof, to throw her arms around Hurk’s big, cuddly body, let her head thump down against his chest, and just _hug_ him for all he’s worth ( _so much, you’re worth so fucking much Hurk, don’t you **dare** feel guilty, **you** have nothing to feel guilty about_). It’s not even a second before he’s returning the hug, shaking and trembling and squeezing her back, so tight it kind of hurts but hell if she gives a single damn. 

Finally though, she pulls back, Hurk whimpering low in the back of his throat but letting her go.

For a second they stand there, right next to each other, one of Hurk’s giant hands resting soft and warm on her shoulder, his head still ducked low and his eyes big and sad as a hound dog. It’s pretty damn effective, as genuinely unintentional guilt-trips go. She can actually feel it starting to work, can feel the promise to stay building up on the back of her tongue; so, quick as she can make herself move, Robin reaches up the couple inches to give Hurk a soft peck on the cheek, and then just as quickly raps her knuckles against his forehead before rocking back on her heels and forcing a sunny smile up at him. “We’ll be back soon.”

And then, head spinning and stomach roiling and heart _screaming_ , she turns and walks away.

##############

She collects Boomer from Virgil’s spoiling, picks Cheeseburger up in the courtyard, and walks straight out of the Jail and out into Henbane. No one tries to stop her – most people don’t seem to realize anything’s out of the ordinary ( _ha fucking **ha**_ ) and the ones that do realize don’t seem able to meet her eyes all of a sudden.

Robin doesn’t actually know what she’s doing, or even where she’s going, except _away_. Hell, she’s not entirely sure what exactly she’s going away _from_. She just… she needs to…

Walking is good.

It’s a start, anyway.

Maybe if she does enough of it then _something_ will start making sense.

It’s the only thought her brain can hold onto, anyway.

So she walks, through a world that’s empty and echoing, hazy and hollow, two of her fluffy murder machine babies by her side ( _should be three, Peaches should be there, should be with them too, but she’s off with Jess and Grace in the Whitetails, off keeping them safe, off helping people, off doing her fucking job while Robin’s fucking **hiding** and collecting **fucking towels** while people get hurt and **fucking die**_ ). The world’s a distant blur and she walks, and sometimes she runs, and when something gets in her way she climbs to show it who’s boss, and –

It honestly comes as a surprise when she finds herself up on top of Angel’s Peak.

It’s… weird. She hasn’t been back to the derelict “holy site” since she blew it the fuck up – between the less than pleasant memories, the whole heights situation, the less than pleasant memories _of_ the whole heights situation ( _stepping off a cliff, stepping off a cliff, stepping off a **motherfucking cliff** , nonononono **no thank you** and **fuck you** anyway Faith, rot in **hell**_ ), and the simple fact that she’s had other shit to do… yeah. There hadn’t been any _point_ to coming back.

It doesn’t really look like anyone _else_ has been back either. The ground it still littered with all the detritus of the mass violence her… _redecorating project_ had prompted – bullet shells and bits of twisted metal and concrete, scorch marks and torn up or burned down vegetation, broken and overturned furniture, little items and knickknacks and other personal items that always seem so out of place in Peggie territory; there’s even little bits of the defending Peggies themselves, scattered skeletons in various degrees of completeness, long since picked clean by the local scavenger population and the elements. It even still _smells_ like the battle, hints of gunpowder and accelerant, of sweat and blood and charred flesh hanging in the air, like the olfactory equivalent of something in your peripheral vision. The whole place had been so utterly _wrecked_ when she’d finished with it that the Cougars hadn’t seen any point in picking over the rubble, and – to her surprise, given how much the site had meant to them when it’d been whole – it doesn’t look like the Peggies bothered to even come and see to their own dead.

_Figures. What’s the point of collecting corpses if you can’t make tacky modern art installations out of them? And probably not as good for your people’s moral – or bad for your enemies’ – if it’s **your** people decorating the street signs._

A hollow, bitter laugh escapes her, echoing all eerie and horrible through the elevated wasteland and –

And, for _some_ reason, it’s like that sound kicks her brain into gear.

The echo slithers through the wreckage, comes bouncing back at her, and slams viciously into her, knocking her back a step physically and setting Hurk’s voice going inside her ears, a group of names cycling over and over through her mind.

Luke Cooke. Wendell Redler. George Wilson. Doctor Sarah Perkins. Skylar Khors. Nadine Abercrombie. Kim and Carmina Rye.

_**Fuck.** _

Their faces start flashing up by their names.

Luke Cooke, who is to Holland Valley what Dave Foster is to Dutch’s Island, the first person she’d made contact with in a world gone to hell; a mechanic, damn good one, and one of the few people she’d gotten into a habit of calling up when she needed a little bit of help – or, honestly, a little bit of company – and her people were all distracted or busy or otherwise indisposed. Big guy, stoic and scary as all hell without having to do more than stand up and exist. She’d found his dad in the Whitetails, up in a cage at Baron Lumber Mill, and when she finally got back and told Luke he just grabbed her in the biggest hug and hadn’t let go for over a minute, barely able to get any words out, and she’d managed to not be a dick for once and hadn’t said anything about how he’d gotten her hair all wet with his tears.

Wendell Redler, Red, Holland’s local Crazy Old Bastard, one of the only people in Hope County whose opinion of the Peggies could best be summarized as “bitches, please.” He had enough ghosts to see them in other people, had seen hers the first time she walked through his door, and hadn’t said a word; he’d just tossed a few tips her way, little secrets for best how to slip around unnoticed, how to be a proper _ghost_ , how to make bastards _fucking dead_ before they even knew you were there – lessons that came too easy, were too _good_ to not have a particularly _horrible_ story attached, but he’d never said and she’d never asked and they’d both understood. He hadn’t asked about her refusal to talk over the radio, either. He’d just slipped her the cricket and taught her and her people a couple of signals and left it at that.

George Wilson, he of the Baseball Cards, _not_ a Crazy Old Bastard, too damn _nice_ for that, but one hell of a beautiful man anyway. He didn’t talk about the cult, not if he didn’t have to; instead crashing with George meant stories of the Real World, the world before Eden’s Gate, of actual _life_ that didn’t involve guns or explosions or hallucinogenic drugs or mountains of _death_. George was stories about baseball games, about Saturday morning fishing trips with your buddies, about saving dumbass tourists that thought they were hot shit until they got treed by an ornery buck. George was talking about music, bitching about whether The Who was better than The Beatles ( _no, George, sorry, they’re **not** and never will be_), agreeing that Queen was divine and that David Bowie was the _true_ King of Rock _and_ Pop, and ganging up on anyone that tried to bring Barry Manilow into the conversation ( _sorry Nestor, there’s a **reason** that mocking him’s become cliché and it’s because it’s **deserved** , you philistine_).

Doctor Perkins, _Sarah_. So far out of her depth and never even entertaining the idea of stopping, of trying to hide, to lay low and hope things blow over from a place of relative safety. Hardcore in her terror in a way a lot of Whitetails couldn’t manage. Steel and blind rage in her eyes as she looked at the wildlife of Hope County, as she rolled up her sleeves and tried to _fix_ the Judges, never once considering that it might not work, never once _considering_ that she could just give up, that no one would blame her in the least, because she _loved_ the wilds and everything that breathed within them too much. A damn _crusader_ with a core of raw strength who turned giddy as a schoolgirl whenever Robin showed up with Boomer or Peaches or Cheeseburger in tow, all but throwing anything she had in hand to the ground in order to give pets and skritches and praise, sneaking illicit treats when she thought Robin wasn’t watching, blushing and babbling excuses when Robin cocked an eyebrow and grinned at the big old softie.

Skylar, one of the first people in all of Hope County that Robin hadn’t seen first as a potential ally or potential threat. Just a… just a _person_ , someone she could kick back with and shoot the shit, could throw out a fishing line alongside and sit in silence, someone she could bitch with, could flirt with and get flirted back at and have it just be _fun_. Tending fish over an open fire while she ranted and railed about her idiot friend, laughing so hard she could barely finish the job, then laughing harder and harder as Skylar’s ranting turned into laughter all her own. The kind of person that made her think of _home_ , of the people she’d grown up with, and somehow managed to do it without making it hurt too much.

Nadine, sweet fluffy dork that she was, taste so damn _terrible_ some of the time but at least someone who knew that Doctor Who existed _before_ the oughties ( _even if she **did** like Colin Baker best – why, Nadine, **why?!**_ ) and could recognize an obscure Discworld reference from a mile away. Crashing on the floor of her house late at night, listening to old audio recordings of TV shows and serials and radio dramas that her grandfather _hadn’t_ sold off, swearing up a storm when she talked about selling them herself, then grinning into the hardwood when she got totally _lost_ in “The Power of the Daleks” or “The Celestial Toymaker,” in “Death is a Colored Dream” or “Doom and the Limping Man.” One day Robin would figure out _how_ exactly she was maintaining that hair in the hellscape they lived in, but until then she would damn well _marvel_ at it.

__

__

Kim.

_Carmy._

By and the large they're not threats, are'tDangers to the Project, aren't – with the _possible_ exception of Kim and Carmy, who seemed to have earned some weird sort of clemency as soon as the later came screaming and raging into the world – _relevant targets_ anymore than anyone else in Hope County. They don't have any strategic importance. Aren't key players in any of the Resistance cells. Don't even have anything in common between all of them. Nothing… except for one little detail.

They’re all Robin’s friends.

And there it is.

Robin was tucked away, deep in Henbane, dug in and on guard and surrounded by Cougars.

She was, more or less, beyond their reach.

And so Eden’s Gate was going after her friends.

The _Seeds_ were going after her friends.

All to draw _her_ out where they could reach her.

Her vision’s gone white again, acid in her mouth and stomach roiling, body shaking and slick with sweat as the _awareness_ – as the _rage_ – builds and builds inside her. She’s so caught up in it all that she doesn’t realize that she’s moving, has been moving, until she trips over something and goes flailing, narrowly avoids face-planting into the ground by catching herself on a boulder, and she blinks the white haze clear and –

Her hand is braced on a chunk of Joseph Seed’s giant stone face, one chipped up eye staring straight at her and down into her soul.

And just like that all the white vanishes from her eyes.

And in its place comes the _red_.

She stares down at the chunk of face, glaring right back into the solemn, _compassionate_ eye, weeks of helpless frustration and months of trauma and fucking _years_ of hell boiling up inside her as the damned remnant of Joseph _Fucking_ Seed’s ego-trip stares at her like it’s got any right to, like it’s got any right to _exist_ , like it should still _be here_ , even partially whole when all of Hope County is getting torn apart by the whim of the psychotic _bastard_ it’s modeled on. Staring up at her, all sad and sympathetic and so _graciously_ willing to _forgive_ , just like _Joseph_ had in that _damn **fucking** broadcast_, reaching out and fucking _taunting_ her with everything she’d ever wanted, even as he sent people out to hurt and hound and kidnap her friends.

The rage is building and building and building, red haze and white noise fogged up around her until she can’t _breathe_ , and Joseph’s stone eye just keeps _staring_ at her and –

Someone _**screams**_ out in blind rage, the sound shattering the relative quiet of the mountain, and Robin doesn’t even realize it was _her_ until the scream of rage warps into one of _pain_.

“ _Mother **bitch** turkey-ass, damn sonova – **fuck!**_ ”

 _Way to go, asshole,_ a voice, wry and dry as Jailhouse gin, drawls out inside her mind, clearly disapproving of her every life decision as she hops on one foot, holding the other and swearing like all hell. _You just kicked a block of concrete that weighs more than a car, **that’ll** do you some good._

“Bitch shut up,” she swears, low and hissed, trying to shake some of the white hot pain out of her foot, blinking back the tears she is absolutely blaming on the pain. She seems to be running into a losing battle on both counts.

“Damn it.” She gives up trying to – literally – shake the physical pain; just plants her feet and throws back her head, grinding her palms against her burning eyes and digging fingers through her hair and into her scalp, choking down deep breath after deep breath as she tries to pull herself together for a second. “ _Damn it_.”

She’s still trying moments later when she hears a rustle from some of the nearby shrubbery. Gritting her teeth and sighing, Robin drops her hands and turns to her finally caught-up four-legged companions.

A cluster of seven bewildered Peggies stare back at her.

Silence falls over Angel’s Peak.

The Peggies stare at Robin.

Robin stares at the Peggies.

It’d be the very picture of a Mexican Stand-Off, only no one’s actually got their weapons out.

Her mind is utterly blank for a split-second. Then it instantly switches gears, shutting out the pain and turmoil as she takes in the situation, scans the area, assesses the Peggies, takes stock of everything even as she tries to figure out what in the ever loving _hell_ is going on.

The seven Peggies stand not ten feet away, six men and a woman, all heavily armed (assault rifles and pistols all around, plus a pretty wicked looking M60 LMG and grenade belt on one of them) and decently kitted out, though only two (LMG-guy and a big, brawny looking bald guy with a baseball bat) are wearing body armor. And then there’s Robin – alone, no body armor to her name, and suddenly very aware of the fact that she’d walked out of the jail with only her 1911, and that she’d gotten up the mountain by way of a vertical ascent that separated her from Boomer and Cheeseburger. Which, in retrospect, is all looking like less than ideal judgment on her part.

No one’s moved yet, aside from her positively racing brain, so – feeling calmer and more in control than she has in _days_ – Robin takes a closer look at the interlopers.

There’s still Peggies kicking around Henbane of course – holdovers from Faith’s regime, hiding themselves away all across the region, like so many rats in an abandoned building… but these guys aren’t those guys. These guys are cleaner, more put together, better equipped, brighter eyed without the pale white haze that all the Henbane cultists have. No. No these aren’t Faith’s leftover Peggies.

They’re John’s.

_So, here we are again._

Except… they still haven’t moved. They’re just standing there, staring at her all shocked and bewildered, and it’s kind of making her wonder if they’re not actually here _for her_ – which, if that’s the case, makes them either the luckiest or _un_ luckiest bastards in all Hope County, depending on your point of view.

It’s disorienting. To say the least. Robin’s _never_ been this close to Peggies without the threat or presence of violence being right front and center, not without a _shitton_ of Bliss being involved, and even then… so yeah. She’s… honestly not sure what to do. It _feels_ like she should be killing them, that’s just… kind of what you _do_ with Peggies. What _she_ does, anyway. But… they’re not… _doing anything_. Not besides just standing there and being Peggies, which given everything still feels very much like it _should_ be all the justification she needs, but –

But she… can’t.

Despite everything… she can’t just kill them for just standing there and being Peggies. No matter how much she _knows_ they’d never show that same restraint to anyone else, no matter how much she knows she probably _should_. She just… can’t kill them. And all of a sudden she’s just too damn _tired_ to try running. So she just… stands there. Staring and being stared at.

Honestly the whole situation’s getting so disorienting and confusing and awkward that she’s half expecting to blink and find herself pantsless and unprepared in Mrs. Grobinski’s fourth grade English class.

And, hell, maybe it’s the same for the Peggies, because they’re just starting to twitch and shift a little, and LMG-guy – leader, probably, better gear usually means higher rank – swallows hard and opens his mouth and –

She can’t allow _that_.

“Well come on.” Robin shifts her weight over to one foot, letting the movement disguise how she’s getting ready to either charge or bolt, canting her head a little to the side and letting her expression go ever so slightly bored as she stares down the now re-frozen Peggies. “I haven’t got all day.”

The Peggies don’t respond, don’t rise to the bait, don’t so much as bristle up. They just… keep _staring,_ starting to look _worried_ – not _scared_ of her, of facing off against _The Rook_ but...

__

__

And just like that Robin feels the _rage_ start rising up again.

Only it’s… different this time. Colder. Weirdly detached.

“Well?” She barely recognizes her own voice, cold as a tombstone and nearly as comforting. “What are you waiting for? You’ve got standing orders to _‘retrieve’_ me, right? Well,” her lips pull up into what could _technically_ be called a smile and she throws her arms out wide, a sense of cold, cruel satisfaction flooding her when the Peggies all jump back and flinch towards their weapons, “I’m right here.” Her lips pull up further, curling away from her teeth like Boomer when he’s scented a Judge. “Come on.”

She takes a step forward and the Peggies _freeze_.

Faces flash before her eyes – Luke and Red, George and Sarah Perkins, Skylar, _Nadine_ , Kim and Carmy, her _people_ , her sheriff, her _**partners**_ , Virgil and Tracey and Pastor Jerome and Mary May, Tammy and Wheaty and Eli, Rae-Rae and her family rotting in the sun, Burke white-eyed and hollowed out, all the poor miserable bastards the Peggies have left broken and in pieces, the ones they’ve left _dead_ , everyone in Hope County that they’ve _hurt_ … and suddenly they’re scared to even _approach_ her.

_Scared of damaging the Seeds’ fucking **property**._

And just like that the cold rage _explodes_.

“ _I’m right fucking **here** , what are you **waiting** for?!_”

Her vision’s gone red, the recoiling Peggies nearly monochromatic against a blood-soaked background, standing out like flares in the darkness. She can see their fear, their _terror_ , and normally that’d _feed_ her, spur her on, sweet and alluring as a deer’s scream to a wolf, but right now all it does is make her rage build, make her _hate_ because right now it’s not _her_ they’re scared of.

“What’s the matter? You can go after the helpless, civilians and babies and anyone who can’t fight back, but _now_ you’re scared?” She takes another step forward, canting her head down and to the side and baring her teeth further at their retreat, glaring at them through a veil of dislodged hair and red-filtered eyes. “Oh, that’s right…” another savage un-smile cuts across her face, hate and rage and disgust seeping out of every word, “you’re not supposed to _hurt me_ , are you?” A sound claws its way through the air, setting the Peggies flinching back again, and belatedly she realizes that she’s _laughing_. “No…” The laugh drops off abruptly, curls up and turns low and musing, sighing, “No, can’t hurt Seeds’ trophy, can we?” The sigh goes flat, a snarl creeping around its edges. “That’s _their_ job.”

She sees a flicker of _frustration_ from one of the Peggies, clawing its way up through the fear, and it damn well _sings_ to her – raw, cruel _pleasure_ busting in her chest, and she throws her head back and _laughs_ again. “Yeah… yeah I bet that’s gone and made things real difficult for all the little cultists.” She sees the fear, sees the conflict, and sees the little sparks of _frustration_ go shooting up, and she laughs and laughs and _laughs_.

And then she stops.

“Maybe I should make things easier for everybody.”

And in one fluid move she draws her 1911 and rests the muzzle against her temple.

One of the Peggies _screams_.

Robin gazes out at their group, calm as a spring morning. Then, slowly, drinking in the mix of terror and blind horror on all seven faces, she smiles. “Well you’re definitely scared _now_ , aren’t you?” She giggles, soft and lilting, the sound drifting through the air like a butterfly. “Yeah… that probably wouldn’t work out so well for you, would it?” She takes another step forward, light and springing, and when her pistol _taps_ against her head half of the Peggies are choking back screams. Robin pauses mid-step – uplifted foot outstretched, a neat relevé lent, effortless and delicately elegant – and cants her head again, humming in consideration. Then, slowly, she brings her foot down, and her smile goes sharp and sharper. “I can image that you’d rather not have to go running back to your _fucking Heralds_ and your _**fucking Father**_ ,” her voice is climbing, the soft hum becoming a vicious snarl, soaring higher and higher with rage as a primal _roars_ builds up inside her chest, “and let them know that their _**fucking soulmate**_ –”

The words stop.

Robin’s shivering, gasping, face wet, the cold press of the gun against her skin her only comfort, the only thing grounding her as the world tries to fall away.

“Let them know that she’d rather die than let them have her.”

Robin stares out at the Peggies through a haze of tears, hollow and raw and empty before their horrified eyes.

“And in the end… it wouldn’t mean. A _damn_. **_Thing_**. Would it?” She huffs a watery little laugh, “Oh they’d be upset for a bit, sure. Weep and wail before the sufficiently impressed ‘faithful,’ throw some tantrums, murder a few helpless prisoners…” The smile crumbles to ash. “And blame it all on somebody else.”

She’s so cold.

“Because… because that’s what you people _fucking **do**_. Isn’t it.”

She’s so tired.

“You take, and you hurt, and you break, and you _kill_ and it’s always _somebody else’s **fault**_.” She’s trembling, gasping, can’t stop, the red swimming before her eyes and her blood screaming in her ears, her teeth out and flashing and _hungry_ as the Peggies stare and tremble in fear before her. “The Seeds and their precious little faithful, standing tall and pious and self-righteous over a mountain of their victims, looking down all sad and satisfied saying ‘now look at what you’ve done’ and asking ‘why couldn’t you have just been _good_?!’”

She just wants it all to _stop_.

“How in the _hell_ do you _live_ with yourselves?!”

It hurts.

“Do you _feel_ anything?! Do you _care_ about what you’re _doing_?!”

It all hurts so much.

“Are we even _fucking **people** to you?!_”

Her voice shatters through the air, only to fade seconds later, dying echoes that plunge the mountain into silence.

Robin shakes, and gasps, and cries, and stares at the Peggies.

The Peggies stand frozen, afraid and horrified, and stare at Robin.

And that’s when Boomer comes charging out of the bushes, barking and snarling at the Bad People.

Time slows. The Peggies jump, shout, turn towards the sudden noise and threat. And Robin watches in a haze as the Peggy nearest Boomer turns and _kicks_ and she hears the high-pitched _cry_ of pain and –

The world’s a blur as her fist _slams_ into the Peggy’s face, catching him across the jaw hard enough to send him to the ground, and she follows him down, her other fist already connecting with his opposite cheekbone before they’ve even hit, then her left fist again, then the right, over and over and over as she _screams_ , “ _Don’t! Fucking! Touch! My! **Dog!**_ ”

She can hear the shouts, hear Boomer’s snarls and barks, hear some distant voice _screaming_ and _pleading_.

She doesn’t pay any of it any mind.

She just listens to the meaty _thuds_ , the sudden sharp _cracks_ and _splinters_ , the steady pounding that gets _wetter_ and _wetter_ , only barely aware that the cries for mercy cut off and die away as she hits and hits and hits and hits and –

Something touches her, arms wrapping around her throat and under and up over her left arm, trying to cage her in and pull her off the _bastard_ that hurt Boomer, and without a thought she throws all her weight backward, sending them both crashing back down, a satisfying wet _thud-crack_ when the back of the Peggy’s skull connects with the stone floor of their unholy shrine. The second he hits the arms holding her go limp, and Robin stays low and spins, pulling one fist back while she moves and throwing all her momentum behind it as she brings it down on his throat, his larynx _shattering_ under the blow.

_Two down_

Someone lunges for where she was, but she was already moving the second the blow landed, rolling to the side and up into a crouch and lunging forward, muscle memory pulling a forgotten throwing-knife out of her boot, forgoing the throwing to shove it up behind the woman’s jaw, up and back towards her spine before pulling it down and out through part of the jugular vein, the Peggy unable to do more than gurgle before her corpse hits the ground.

_Three_

She’s already moving again, not quite fast enough this time to dodge the bullet that grazes the outside of her thigh, one Peggy frantically backpedaling as he shoots to wound, apparently terrified enough of _her_ to risk whatever he thinks the Seeds will do to him. She doesn’t notice the pain, just the sudden trail of cold pressure, but it pulls her attention in his direction just in time to see the Big Peggy – apparently feeling the same as Pistol Peggy – charging her, bat out and held up like a shield, ready to try and pin her –

And that’s when Cheeseburger appears.

Robin darts off to the side, passes Big Peggy’s screams of terror and agony as he tries futilely to fend her giant, enraged grizzly bear off with a bat, sprints forward past where Boomer’s just leaping off a Peggy who’s limp on the ground – _four_ – with red spilling out of his open throat, ignores Pistol Peggy, who’s now completely in hysterics and – faced with too many targets and too many dead friends – is shooting wildly and hitting nothing, leaves him behind as his screams of terror turn into screams of pain when Boomer finds him, leaves it all behind and _launches_ herself at LMG-guy just in time to grapple his gun up and away from Cheeseburger.

Her momentum shoves him back a few feet, before he gets himself together and throws his weight against hers, solid muscle and heavy armor against her half-starved and desperation-fueled strength. He’s got a couple inches on her, not to mention what’s probably about a hundred pound of muscle. But she’s got her rage and no regard for her own safety or wellbeing. He pulls at the gun and she twists, he shoves backwards and she hooks a foot around behind his, he swears and tries to fucking _headbutt_ her and she snarls and nearly gets her teeth into his throat. The guy recoils at that, sharp and sudden and fueled with enough shocked fear to kick his muscles into overdrive, yanking and staggering back, the gun tearing free from her grasp as he stumbles backwards. Robin follows the retreat, then ducks off to the side as he brings the butt of his gun down towards her head. She presses in again, ducks again, keeps at him, trying to get an opening and trying to keep him from getting the gun up and ready to fire.

Any fear of reprisal, any _conflict_ that might have been in LMG-guy is _gone_ , his teeth bared and mouth frothing, eyes burning with all the blazing _hatred_ the Peggies had had for her back before the hell that was the Holland Gate. Each swing of the rifle goes faster, harder, the guy backpedalling faster and faster as he tries to get the distance to pull his weapon up and _shoot_ , and if he does there’s every chance that he might not aim to wound.

It’s absolutely fucking _glorious_.

Robin lunges, flicking the throwing knife back up into her hand and swiping at an unprotected area on the side of his left knee. She hits her mark, the blade cutting in through his pants and lodging into his flesh. But she’s not _quite_ fast enough to dodge the M60 when it comes swinging down again, clipping her on the right shoulder and sending a shock of white hot _pain_ through her entire arm and into her chest. She throws herself to the side, rolling and pushing through the pain, lunging forward again even as the Peggy stumbles backwards and gets his gun up and pointed her way, _screaming_ in pain and anger and _hate_ , “ _Fucking sinner! Deceiver! Worthless, **unworthy**_ –”

She goes low, slips under the muzzle, under the gun, reaches up and catches and _yanks_ one two three rings off the grenades on his belt, then throws her whole weight behind her and _slams_ against his body, knocking him back, feet stumbling across the ground for a second before there’s no more ground, his screams of hate warping into screams of terror as he falls back, eyes wide with mortal terror catching Robin’s for a split second before he vanishes over the edge of the cliff. Robin doesn’t wait to the wet thud and shattering crack as he hits a ledge, just lets herself drop to the ground, rolls back, gets her feet under her and sprints away from the edge just before the Peggy’s horrified and agonized _shrieks_ are cut off by the explosion of a dozen or so daisy-chaining grenades.

She’s still close enough for the force to hit her, send her sprawling back onto the ground with her vision swimming and her ears ringing.

It takes a couple false starts but she _does_ manage to get herself upright again, knees bent and close to the ground so as to provide a smaller target and – more importantly at the moment – not go crashing right back down on her face or ass. From there, though, it only takes a second to sweep the area, catching Cheeseburger lumbering her way from the shredded pile of meat that had been Big Peggy, Boomer darting her way – only the vaguest hint of a limp – with a wagging tail and a pistol in his mouth, and the motionless corpses of one, two, three, four, five –

Five…?

There’s a flicker of movement a bit away from her, and she’s taking the pistol from Boomer and bringing it up towards that movement just as her hearing starts to clear up and –

Pistol Peggy – now sans pistol – is scrabbling against the ground, one arm hanging limp as the other claws desperately, legs sliding and kicking against the blood soaked stone as he tries to drag himself away.

Slowly, Robin stands, pistol held ready as she moves closer, steadily making her way to the Peggy that – for _some_ reason – Boomer _didn’t_ finish off and –

His head whips around, painfully wide eyes staring up at her in terror, and two things hit her in rapid succession.

The first is the _smell_ , bringing with it the realization that Boomer’d left him alive because he’d actually _pissed himself_.

The second is that… that he’s a _fucking **kid**_.

Robin stares down at the wide eyes, brown irises swallowed by his pupils and drowning in tears, at the skin that’s gone gray under all the dirt and freckles, and the dirty blond hair that’s mussed and matted with blood, and sees a kid that can’t _possibly_ be older than Wheaty, if he’s even _that_ old. She stares down at the kid, shaking and trembling, soaked with his own sweat and blood and piss, surrounded by the corpses of his… friends, companions, _fellow cultists_ , and staring up at her with so much terror that he could be looking at Death itself.

And, standing over the kid with his own pistol in hand, pointed right down at his face, wet with the blood of others, it hits Robin that he might not be all that far off.

She needs to kill him.

Robin stares down at the kid, feeling cold and tired and hollow, and her finger eases over the trigger.

He’s a Peggy. A cultist. Probably a thief and a murderer and at the very least a party to torture, no matter how young he is.

He’s a Peggy. And killing Peggies, fighting and challenging and _stopping_ Eden’s Gate wherever it lives is what she does.

He’s a Peggy. And she’s certainly killed Peggies before. Hell, she _just_ killed a bunch of them _just now_. Has killed them when they were outnumbered, when they were outclassed, when they were unsuspecting.

He’s a Peggy. And what’s just one more?

He’s a Peggy.

But –

But…

But.

He’s a Peggy, but there’s one _hell_ of a difference between killing a Peggy that’s trying to kill _you_ , that’s actively _hurting_ someone, that’s armed and on patrol and still wet with the blood of victims being held just beyond their circuit, and killing a Peggy who’s on the ground and completely unable to _fight back_.

He’s a Peggy, and Robin’s killed Peggies before.

But she’s never _murdered_ one before.

And she’s damn well not going to start now.

Robin’s arms slowly ease down to her sides, the pistol knocking softly against her thigh, and she jerks her head in the general direction of Holland Valley. “Go.”

The kid stares up at her, still shaking, still crying, eyes starting to flick over to whatever passes for Home for him before _immediately_ locking back onto her, face twisted and eyes full of blind terror and utter _confusion_.

Her dying rage flares back up, high enough that – for the moment – she can ignore the stab of pain, of shame and guilt and self-loathing. She grabs the heat of it, wraps herself in it, and throws it all at the quaking boy at her feet. “I said, _fucking **go!**_ ” The pistol flies back up, a quick twitch of one finger sending a bullet into the stone about a foot away from him, pulling a strangled, terrified sob from the kid as he throws himself to the side, rolls and scrambles and gets his feet under him, stumbling away from her and towards the path that leads off the mountain as fast as he can, while she screams at his retreating back. “ _Go! Get the **fuck** out of here!_”

Seconds later he flings himself down the path and disappears from sight.

Robin stares in the direction he’d vanished in.

And then her legs give out.

She probably blacks out for a second too, because the next thing she knows she sat down on her ass on the bloody ground, legs spread out akimbo in front of her, one hand still clutching the pistol and the other planted on the cold stone. There’s also a dog in her lap, licking frantically at her face, and the nearly fairy-tale perfect comfort of a grizzly bear snuggled up against her back, holding her upright and nuzzling softly against her hurting shoulder.

Robin blinks down at the dog face in her face, kind of dizzy, and can’t quite muster the strength to protest and shove the bottomless reservoir of drool that is Boomer’s muzzle away from her.

Which is, apparently, _not_ the correct response, because suddenly she’s not being licked anymore – suddenly Boomer’s ears are pinned flat against his skull and he’s whining, and then suddenly Cheeseburger’s not nuzzling her shoulder anymore, and there’s a weirdly silent, electricity filled moment before even _more_ suddenly she’s getting shoved upright by a near on a thousand pounds of grizzly bear.

And then she’s getting led down the mountain (the side _opposite_ where she’d sent the kid running) – Cheeseburger pushing her steadily from behind and Boomer tugging and guiding her along by the leg of her pants.

And _screw_ conventional wisdom and modern science and whatever, Robin is getting shepherded along by a joint operation between a dog and a grizzly bear, there is _definitely_ something approaching human levels of intelligence at work here.

And damn if she isn’t letting them do it.

She may be a little shook.

Somewhere down the mountain her feet start working properly, and she goes from being dragged and pushed along to actually following her fluffy guides, both of whom seem to emphatically approve of her cooperation. Then, a little bit after this point, her brain starts trying to work properly again; that bit’s got a little less success, but she at least manages to register that they’re leading her down past Deadman’s Mill and then –

They stop.

The halt comes so suddenly, so abruptly, that it makes her head swim a little. Which is why, when Cheeseburger starts nudging insistently at the back of her knees, then circles around to sort of gently shove against her stomach, she obediently sits herself down amidst the little field of grass around them.

That’s her story anyway, and she’s sticking with it.

Robin may be willing – with varying degrees of enthusiasm – to Protect and Serve the people of Hope County in any way she can, but she will _not_ take orders from her own bear.

She won’t _admit_ to doing so, anyway. At least not out loud.

And so, more than somewhat bewildered, she sits there and watches as Cheeseburger’s giant furry ass disappears into the tall grass. Once he’s vanished entirely she feels her head move, turning slowly to look down at Boomer for answers. Her dog looks back up at her. Then, with gentle little ‘wuff’ of support, he reaches up and slobbers over about three-quarters of her face before settling back down, tongue lolling out. Robin just keeps staring, doggy-drool dripping slowly off her slack face. And then…

And then she realizes she can’t think of a damn reason why she should be vertical, and she lets herself fall back against the ground with a low thud.

And then she just lies there, staring up through the grass at the Big Sky and the clouds, a little bundle of warm fur and love pressed tight up against her side, and does her damnedest to shut out anything that isn’t that.

For once, her damnedest actually seems to work. The world falls away from Robin, but in a _good_ way this time – all the pain and turmoil and utter shit of the day – _week, month, year, life_ – drifting off as she stares up at the blue sky and white clouds, the shadows of birds that wheel above, the bees that drift lazily above the tips of the grass, lets herself get lulled by the softness and warmth of Boomer against her side, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the feel of damp earth underneath her fingers, the smell of the air and the plants and running water, slowly growing brighter and cleaner as the sickly sweetness of the Bliss gets steadily burned away from the fields.

Robin’s tired and she’s cold and she _hurts_ … but, for just this moment… she can actually push it all away.

She starts to drift off into peace and oblivion.

And that’s when something big and cold and _wet_ comes thumping down on her stomach.

She nearly comes out of her skin, flailing upright and probably scaring the hell out of Boomer as she squawks and bats at the things that’s landed on her and –

There’s a largemouth bass in her lap.

Robin freezes mid-flail, staring down in utter bewilderment at the big, frankly _beautiful_ fish that has just literally landed in her lap.

Then, slowly, she looks up from the fish to where Cheeseburger is suddenly sitting, side-by-side with Boomer, eyes all big and intent as they stare at her, looking simultaneously worried and hopeful in a way she’s not entirely sure bears are supposed to be able to look.

Her mind reels.

It’s… he’d… the whole _day’d_ been… but… and fish…

Fish.

Cheeseburger had gotten her a fish.

Robin was upset, was sad and hurting and Not OK… and her bear’d gone and gotten her a fish to make it all better.

She stares into Cheeseburger’s big, dopey, beautiful bear face, into his big hopeful and worried eyes, feels the cold wetness of the fish in her lap and under her fingers… and the second she holds up her hands he’s moving in close, his fur warm and soft between her fingers, against her forehead and her cheek as she buries her head against his neck and just starts laughing and crying, hugging her bear like her life depends on it, and the big, fluffy angel lets her, relaxing and sighing contentedly into it all, tension bleeding out of his big bear body as he determines that she’s OK For Now, and when Boomer forces his way through the tangle of bear bulk and person limbs, crawls up into her lap and licks at her face until its twice as wet and she’s laughing harder and shoving him away, the sense of _peace_ that breaks out could probably soothe all the pain of the entire country.

Eventually they break apart a little, just enough so that Cheeseburger can lie down, so that Robin can flop down against his bulk with Boomer curled up in her lap.

They don’t move for quite some time.

And, when Cheeseburger ends up eating the bass, neither Robin nor Boomer really mind.

##############

They get back to the Jail just after nightfall – still caked with blood and dirt and smelling of fish.

Tracey gives her a coffee mug filled with bathtub hooch, her sheriff gives her a plate filled with fresh meat and tinned fruits, and Hurk sits right up next to her and throws an arm around her shoulder that she doesn’t even pretend to be exasperated by, and no one says a damn word about anything important for the rest of the night.

##############

She never does figure out what those Peggies had been doing in Henbane.

##############

A few days pass after the Event up on top of Angel’s Peak. Long enough that new cut-off whispers start cycling through Henbane. Long enough for the brief surge of peace and relief that Robin had felt to start fading away, for the awareness that she’s needed elsewhere, that she can’t afford to keep hiding away in Henbane to build and build and build up again. Long enough for her gaze to lock onto the distant shores of Holland Valley or the Whitetail Mountains, her bow fingers itching restlessly, her mind and heart and soul screaming out that she needs to get back to work. Long enough for her to feel the shameful burn of idleness.

She knows what she needs to do – to get back on the bike of guerilla warfare, violent rebellion, and righteous indignation and _ride_ – and she knows that she’ll have to do it pretty damn _soon_.

In the end, though, Robin doesn’t so much jump back on the bike as the bike jumps her from out of the bushes.

She’s just finished dropping off a shitton of fresh pronghorn at the Jail, stopping long enough to maintain _very_ pointed eye contact with Whitehorse – who at least had the decency to look abashed _this_ time – while a very uncomfortable Cougar stuttered her way through the scripted details of a particularly reaching fetch-quest – _fourteen steno notebooks? **Seriously** people, at least the towels could hypothetically be used for bandages or Molotovs or something. What are you going to do with that many notebooks, anyway, makes memos about how much the Peggies suck? This plan hasn’t been decent for a while but **this** is just embarrassing for everyone involved_ – that everyone doggedly pretended was actually a thing.

Seriously, the whole thing is just _sad_.

But _damn_ her for an idiot and a coward she’s damn well going to do it anyway, because apparently this is now her life. And, anyway, she’s always had a _really_ hard time turning down people when they ask her for help, even when it’s stupid or total bullshit.

Damn her.

And them.

And fucking _everything_.

_Nihilism!_

She’s making her way North of the Jail, alone but for Boomer – Hurk and Cheeseburger are back in Holland again, her Bromigo still drained and worn down and riddled with guilt but at least a little more himself again – when, suddenly, her dog perks up and starts growling.

Within a second Robin’s got her bow up, arrow ready, pulse racing and hands steady for a fight and then… out of fucking nowhere a Whitetail comes popping up out of the bushes. 

It’s _so_ incongruous that – for a split second – she wonders if this is some new Peggy tactic and the cultists have degraded to dressing as the enemy.

Then it hits her that she recognizes this particular militia lunatic, which means she’s _probably_ not getting ambushed by a cultist, and she – rather magnanimously, all things considers – lowers her bow without skewering the other woman first.

“I, uh… hate to tell you this…” Robin scratches Boomer behind the ears in thanks, slinging her bow back into place, “but I think you are _very_ lost.”

The other woman – Thistle Thornton, hippie parents, worked construction for Eli for years, gleeful participant in the bar brawl that had cemented Robin and Joey ( _sorry, sorry, fuck Joey, I’m so, so sorry_ ) as friends; husband had convinced her to embrace The Path back in the early days but they’d wised up and run, only for him to die a few days later in the car accident that had taken most of Thistle’s left arm and moved her faded out the Words up above the stump where her elbow’d been – just gives her a tight, not unfriendly smile and nods. Then, walking over to Robin and Boomer, she reaches into her bag and pulls out what for all the world appears to be an old Sony Walkman.

Robin stares for a minute, the whole situation so genuinely _bizarre_ that it’s taking some time for her to process everything.

Then Thistle kind of shakes the Walkman at her, and muscle memory and deeply engrained politeness kick in and she takes the relic, clicking it on and starting up the cassette tape as the Whitetail takes a few polite steps away.<

 _“Hey, Dep.”_ Wheaty’s voice crackles out at her, sounding kind of strained and jittery, the way he does when he’s doing something he knows Eli and/or Tammy probably won’t approve of. _“Hope you’re enjoying your vacation down in – oh **fuck** , why did I – that’s no- Dep, no one thinks that you’re – I am such an assh- **sorry** , sorry I didn’t mean that… shit.”_ The kid sounds _so_ horrified and embarrassed, and it’s everything Robin can do to not just start _laughing_ as he stutters and curses himself. Hell, even Thistle’s chuckling a little from where she’s trying to be unobtrusive, eyes crinkling upwards in fond amusement. It takes a few more seconds – Wheaty muttering something about just starting over from the top and the two women avoiding eye contact so they won’t totally lose it – but eventually the kid sighs heavily over the tape. _“Just… aw shit, Eli would **kill** me if he knew I was doing this, but…”_ He trails off for a moment, like he’s scared that the rumors are true and Eli Palmer can be summoned by uttering his name. Then, breathing shakily and audibly fiddling with something, he starts speaking again, slow and deliberate and deeply uncomfortable with what he’s doing. _“But I just… It’s about… that **thing**. The one that you asked me about… the thing you made me **promise** that first time you came to Wolf’s Den.”_

All the amusement dies away, the breath freezing in Robin’s throat and heart stopping as her eyes suddenly lock on to the innocuous little recording device, Wheaty’s tinny voice cutting through the silence.

“Dep… I think I know where the Peggies are keeping Staci Pratt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: PTSD, References to self-harm, Unhealthy coping mechanisms, Self-loathing, Suicidal thoughts/behaviors, Dissociative Episodes, and Violence.
> 
> _DUN-DUN-DUUUUUUUUN!!!_
> 
> _Also - in which Robin continues to have Bad Times, Hurk's has some Bad Times of his own, and some Peggies wander into the **wrong** place and the **very wrong** time. Featuring Cheeseburger and Boomer as the world's best support network (and not featuring Peaches, who - somewhere in the Whitetails - sensed she was Not Where She Was Supposed To Be and decided to mother Grace and Jess twice as hard to make up for it; said Grace and Jess were, for their own part, very confused but very accepting of it)._
> 
> _Well, again I'm really sorry for the delay; I **should** be uploading **on Friday** next week. Hope you enjoyed and see y'all then!_
> 
>  
> 
> _Title comes from "Control" by Halsey. Because Halsey._


	14. One More Dance (And Then Farewell)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Back to posting on Friday! Whoooo!!! Success!!! *looks at clock* … … … Posting very late on Friday! Still calling it a win, whoooo!!!_

If she survives this, Robin is fully aware that _everyone_ she knows is going to kill her. Or – worse – finally get around to locking her into a bunker or jail cell or Nick and Kim’s basement (once they get it back) or something for her own good. And, depressingly enough, that’s the _best_ case scenario she can think of, and some cruel little voice in her mind keeps pointing out that it’s the least likely outcome of this little venture.

But _fuckit_ , she’s not leaving Staci Pratt in the Peggies’ tender care for a minute longer. No. No, she is going to get her partner – her _friend_ , _her_ Staci – out and to safety if it _kills_ her.

Robin just wishes she could believe that _that’s_ actually what’ll happen if she fucks this up.

They’ve been following the mountains that circle Hope County for the most part, blitzing through Henbane in record time – on the chance that someone gets it into their head to check up on her – before slowing to a crawl as they enter the Whitetail Mountains, keeping in cover and ducking any patrols that come anywhere near them. Boomer’s quiet, alert, all business and impossibly comforting in his natural doggy badassery. Thistle’s also quiet, though – while she’s too much a professional to let it affect her performance – it’s obviously more because she’s worried about the fallout when Eli finds out about all this. And Robin’s quiet because… everything.

The three of them are so quiet, in fact, that they totally sneak up on the Whitetail militia team that’s scoping out St. Francis and Robin nearly gets stabbed by an Eddie Haskell look-a-like.

“Dep?!” The leader of the group – Nestor Doyle, lifelong militia man, former convenience store clerk, almost as devastating with a pool cue on the field of battle as he is at the pool table – is staring in shock, eyes flickering between her and Thistle in growing horror as Robin releases the stabby one – Everett Haley, poor bastard’s even got the same initials as Haskell, if none of the smooth chicanery – and waves cheerily at the group like she _isn’t_ making them quietly piss themselves. “You’re… you’re _here_?!”

Robin stops waving, tilts her head towards him, and then – because she’s kind of an asshole and no amount of war or trauma will ever change that – drawls, “No. I’m a hallucination.” She drags a very flat look across each face, “Your collective consciences have created me to come kick your asses for bringing a group this big this close to Jacob Fucking Seed’s fucking house before trying to infiltrate it.” She takes a quick breath, trying to wrestle down the storm welling up inside her and be less bitch for once. “Seriously, what was your plan? Get caught and try and stage a prison break from the inside before Jacob shows up to _mindrape you into submission?_ ”

Well. So much for being less bitch.

Shit but she’s compromised.

Luckily, Whitetails in general are made of stern – Eli-forged and Tammy-refined – stuff, and this group in particular has actually worked with her before, so only a couple of them flinch back like beaten dogs from her surge of quiet rage. Unfortunately, that means that a couple of them are still staring at her like they’re planning an intervention. Or kidnapping and forced imprisonment. Honestly it’ll probably end up as a combination of both if she lets them think on it too long.

“Dep,” Nestor’s gotten over his confused and horrified panic and is now giving her a stone-faced _Look_ , “you _should not_ be here.”

She stares right on back at him. “That is frequently true. But,” her lips curl up in what could theoretically be called a smile, “I’ve never let that stop me before. So.”

One of the others – Anita Singh, retiree and empty-nester, needlepoint and demolition derby enthusiast, fucking terrifying – is ignoring the drama to glare daggers at Thistle. “You were just supposed to _deliver_ the message. What were you _thinking_ letting her come back with you?”

That draws two incredulous glares – one also profoundly insulted and quietly furious – to the older woman, Thistle’s low “Are you serious” running up alongside Robin’s snarled “I do not get _‘let.’_ ”

“ _Dep._ ” Nestor must be significantly more scared of Eli than he is of her – debatable wisdom there – because he claps a hand down on her shoulder, jerking her attention squarely back from Anita. “I get it, ok?” He sounds so damn calm, so _reasonable_ that it’s everything she can do to not throat punch him. “But you need to let us handle this.”

“Really?” _Don’t throat punch allies, Robby, it’s rude and hurts people’s feelings. And throats._ “Because you didn’t even hear _us_ coming, and we weren’t even trying to sneak up on _you_.”

“Yeah, but you’re a Ninja Ghost Warrior with a superdog, and Thist-”

“You _can’t be here._ ” Nestor rides directly over the protesting Whitetail (Max Swailes, third generation prepper, can’t shoot straight for shit but freakishly adept at making things explode), the strain showing all the more as he tries to talk sense into her. “It’s not safe. Now… look, just…” His hand trembles a little on her shoulder, “We’re pretty close to the border still; you and Thistle head back over the ridge, stay quiet and keep your heads down, and you can probably get back to Henbane before anyone realizes you’re here, alright?”

Everything goes still in their little circle, the last hushed whisper dying as Robin stares Nestor directly in the eyes.

 _Fuck_.

_That._

“Nestor.” Robin’s voice is uncannily calm and even as she stares the older man down, “I am going to save my partner. _You_ can either help me do that, or get the fuck out of my way.” She doesn’t blink, doesn’t let her gaze waver, and consequentially sees the exact moment that Nestor Doyle starts reevaluating who he’s more afraid of between Eli Palmer and her. “So then,” Robin smiles at them with all the warmth and friendliness of a hungry wolf, “what’s it going to be?”

##############

Robin’s Peggy hits the ground a beat after Duke’s, the former halfback moving the bodies out of sight as Robin ducks low and moves to the next bit of cover, sighting and drawing down on an unsuspecting Peggy over by the cages – empty, they’d waited for some Chosen to take the remaining Judges out in response to Anita’s group’s distraction before they’d moved in – and waiting for the guy to angle himself just right before she puts an arrow through his eye. Once that guy’s down she waits – _one, two, three_ – to see if anyone’s noticed, then changes cover when no one starts screaming or shooting at her.

Pulling her latest kill behind a cluster of Bliss barrels – _don’t you fucking **dare** explode or anything you bastards_ – Robin waits for Duke to catch up, eyeing another pair of cultists patrolling up ahead and trying to not start hyperventilating or anything.

She’s infiltrating one of the most secure places – debatably _the most_ secure place – in Hope County with four other people, a distraction, and a dog, and _somehow_ they seem to be pulling it off. Who knows, maybe the Peggies just feel too secure in the beating heart of crazytown to be paying as much attention as Robin and the Whitetails had figured they would. Hell, even Jacob’s people have to give into overconfidence every once in a while, right?

All she knows for sure is that the success they’re experiencing is scaring her more than if things were going screaming into hell.

Trying not to let her perfectly reasonable paranoia get to her, Robin waits for a few moments until Duke’s caught up and then they set up to take out the last two Peggies between them and their target. Two arrows later – and Duke’s no Jess but damn can he get the job done right – their path _seems_ clear, and Robin’s rushing silently along a row of empty kennels, trying to not gag at the smell and keeping her eyes peeled for any Peggies even as she –

Oh.

Oh fuck.

_Jacob, you sick fucking **bastard.**_

Staci Pratt is curled up on his side in a one of the cages, dead center of where the Judges are kept, trembling and whimpering in his sleep like a… fuck, like a dog that’s having a nightmare. Even from a distance Robin can see that he looks _horrible_ , bruised and beaten to hell and filthy, bones jutting out too sharply from what used to be a powerful frame, so that – all in all – the filthy uniform that he’s still got on looks like an insulting costume rather than a mark of honor. There’s a split second where all Robin can do is stare at him, coldly numb at the sight of her brutalized friend. Then, in a disorienting rush, a surge of horror and nausea and blind _rage_ comes sweeping over her, and she’s lunging forward to get into the cage.

The door isn’t even locked.

Staci jerks awake the second the door starts to open, scrambling up to his knees with his head bowed and eyes squeezed shut and hands clasped together behind his back, shaking like a leaf and terrifyingly silent as he waits for… fuck, she’s not even going to think about that. And then, just as she’s thinking things are as horrible as they can get, she just barely touches his shoulder and Staci _loses_ it, whining high and sharp in the back of his throat like a kicked dog and _recoiling_ back against the bars of the cage, curling himself up and convulsing in terror, babbling a sickening flood of “no” and “please” and “be good” into his knees as he cringes and rocks himself hysterically.

Robin has to fight down her gag reflex, tries to shove the surge of her own hysteria down long enough to reach him. Falling down on her knees she reaches out again, “Staci!” Somehow she manages to get a hold on his face, Duke hissing out in a panic from somewhere behind her when her partner’s whimpers spike up dangerously. “Staci, calm down, it’s me!” She knows she should probably be being a hell of a lot more gentle, is very probably going to exacerbate his panic and get them all caught, but in the moment all she cares about is _somehow_ getting through to her friend, so she gets a firmer hold on his face, pulls him towards her, gets up close and somehow manages to catch his petrified eyes. “Staci, it’s Robin!” He freezes so abruptly that, for a second, she thinks he may have just had a heart attack. Then, just as abruptly, she sees his eyes flick – lightning quick – over her face. Shivering, gasping, fighting back her own tears, she keeps a firm grip on him and starts to run her thumbs in gentle circles over his temples, keeping their eyes locked together and trying to force her way through all the trauma and pull Staci back out. “It’s Robin.”

Staci’s breath catches, just once, and his body twitches violently. Then his eyes track over her again, desperate, like somebody lost at sea who’s not sure if they’ve just seen land or another mirage. A second later his lips twitch frantically, and finally a rough, croaked sound falls free. “Robby?” Staci’s hands rise shakily into the air, hovering over her skin for a moment before finally making contact. The second he does – the lightest brush possible against her cheeks – he jerks them away again, gasping and whimpering hysterically for a moment, sending Robin into a fit of hushed murmurs of comfort as her thumbs pick up their speed in an attempt to calm him back down. Another few, painfully tense seconds pass, the two deputies kneeling together inside the cage while the militiaman shuffles and grows increasingly unnerved outside it, Staci shuddering and gasping through the tears as he stares at her like he’s too scared to believe, and Robin losing the battle to hold back her own tears as she tries to hold her friend together with her own two hands. Then, finally, going terrifyingly still for a heart-stopping moment, Staci’s hands come back to brush against her face. “A- are you real?”

She should be gentle with him. Should reassure him, let him know that everything’s alright. Should say something comforting and supportive, to cut through all the torture and mental fuckery he’s had to endure. But Robin’s kind of an asshole, so what comes out of her mouth instead is, “Bitch, what do you think?”

He stares at her for a moment, mouth open and trembling and eyes glassy, and internally Robin’s cursing herself up one side and down the other for being such an unrelenting _bastard_ , when – just as she’s about to burst out into tears and start rambling herself – Staci shakes once and _laughs_ , eyes crinkling up and nose wrinkling and smile so wide it probably hurts. And then he’s leaning forward, actually running his hands over her face and through her hair like a crazy person, and still laughing and beaming at her, and it’s probably too loud and too dangerous and she should stop him but she doesn’t, doesn’t _care_ about any of that, because he’s still _in there_. Her partner, her friend, her snarky dorky _brother_ is still there, underneath all the cuts and bruises and trauma. She’s not too late. Jacob hasn’t taken _this_ from her too. Robin’s got him. Her Staci’s still _alive_.

She’s not one hundred percent sure, but she’s pretty sure what she’s feeling is _hope_.

They’re shaking and laughing together, kneeling on the ground, holding each other’s faces and resting their heads together and then, just as she’s thinking that she can’t remember the last time she felt this genuinely _happy_ , Staci _freezes_. It’s so sudden, so abrupt, such a complete swerve that it’s a wonder they don’t both get the bends. And then, just as suddenly, Staci’s pulling back again, shaking and staring at her with wide, horrified eyes as he gasps, choking the desperate words out in a harsh, painful sounding rasp. “You… you gotta go.” The terror’s rising in his eyes again as they start darting around their surroundings, coming back to rest on her as he suddenly grabs her arms, simultaneously trying to hold her and shake her and push her away, hysteria rising as he stutters, “Shit, Robby, you shouldn’t have come for me, you’ve got to get out of here, you’ve got to _run_!”

Somewhere during the panic attack he’s shook her hands off, which isn’t working at all for Robin so she reaches out again and grabs his shoulders tightly. “Yeah, I plan to.” Holding his gaze, trying to force some of her own fake calm into him through eye contact, she lets go with one hand while pulling him towards the opening of the cage with the other. “And you’re coming with me, so come _on_.”

He doesn’t follow, doesn’t even seem to be processing what’s going on anymore, just keeps whipping his eyes wildly around them as he’s looking for something – _someone_ – before staring up at her again, tears starting to well up and stream down his face as he babbles. “I didn’t… I didn’t tell him anything. Robby, I swear I didn’t tell him anything about you. I…” Staci keens again, the high, broken animal noise ripping through her heart and turning her stomach as he stares up at her in blind desperation, hysteria reaching a dangerous fever pitch as sobs, like he’s trying to defend himself from an accusation of betrayal that she’d never even _considered_ for a moment. “I said we barely knew each other, just worked together and –”

Robin tugs at his arm again, trying to pull him to her, free hand coming up to his face again, trying to sooth and brush away the tears and get his mind back in reality. “It’s ok Stace, I know.”

Staci doesn’t hear her. Doesn’t seem to be in the same _world_ as her anymore. Just collapses in on himself, curling into a ball and holding his head in his hands, face buried as he rocks himself back and forth and sobs, “I didn’t… I didn’t…”

She stares down at him, watching her friend disappear again, turning back into the beaten dog that _Jacob Fucking Seed_ – her enemy, her nightmare, her _fucking soulmate_ – has warped her _friend_ – her partner, her brother, _her Staci_ – into.

_No._

_Fucking **no**._

_You do **not** get to take him too, **not him** , you **sick. Fucking. Bastard.**_

And _there’s_ the rage.

_Hello, old friend._

She latches onto the cold clarity washing over her, lets it smother everything in its wake, lets it flood into her voice and – channeling the essence of Earl Whitehorse and the necessary command of every battlefield she’s ever shared with an ally – lets the force of Unequivocal Authority enter her voice, elevating her next words into Law. “Deputy Pratt, on your feet.”

And holy _shit_ it fucking _works_.

Staci’s head snaps up, his eyes bright and clear where they lock on her face, and there’s actually not enough room in the cage to stand but he’s got his feet under him, one hand grasping the bars above as he prepares to get _out_. The change only lasts for a second, long enough to startle the rage out of her and shake her calm command, and the moment it fades Staci’s eyes go a little wide again, the fear and the confusion and the _everything_ starting to flood back. But he’s still _looking_ at her. So, before anything else can change, Robin puts her hand on his shoulder and gives it a squeeze, smiling at her friend. “There we go.” There’s a half a second of blank uncertainty. Then Staci smiles back. That terrifying sense of hope returning, Robin makes herself grin properly and nods towards the door of the cage, “Now come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”

Robin sort of crabwalks out of the cage, Duke – looking ready to fly apart from nerves – grabbing her arm and helping her get vertical as soon as she clears the roof, and she hauls Staci up after her. There’s another split second when the other deputy’s eyes land on the militiaman, where it looks like he’s about to lose it again; but, before Robin can even think of what to do, Staci shakes it off, looking back at her with an expression of absolute trust and devotion that makes her break out in a cold sweat.

Swallowing all the emotions deep down to where they belong – where she doesn’t have to think about them and they can’t bother her – she gets her bow back out, nods in the direction they came from, and takes a step towards freedom.

Then, from behind a cluster of Bliss barrels, a tinny voice comes squawking out of a radio.

_“Sector Three, this is Command, report. … Sector Three. … Douglas, report **now**. … Carter? … Reese? … Mitchell, Blakemore, Won, go check out Sector Three. All personnel be advised of possible intruder presence – someone contact Jacob.”_

“Well.” From between the shell-shocked Duke and the increasingly terrified Staci, Robin just stares in the direction of the Bliss barrel-obscured maybe-Douglas, more exasperated than anything at the dropped-shoe that call represents. “Shit.”

##############

Robin ducks behind a tree, yanking Staci along with her and flattening them both to the ground. Spread out around them the others are also taking cover, all indulging in some particularly _heinous_ internal profanity if their expressions are any indication, as they listen to the conspicuous silence of the approaching Chosen.

They’re fucked.

Robin knows it, the Whitetails know it, Staci _definitely_ knows it – hell, even _Boomer_ seems to know it, gone all deathly still and hackles raised at her side.

They’d counted on the forces inside St. Francis compound coming after them like kicked ants, and had managed to first get out of St. Francis and then up over the ridge and towards Henbane without getting dead. What they _hadn’t_ counted on was the Chosen who were _supposed_ to be getting distracted by Anita’s group being not distracted _enough_ , leaving them to get called in on the Hunt before Robin and her Whitetails even knew what was going on.

Which, basically, means that the Peggies have a pincer going on and are about to strategically _spit-roast_ them in the worst way possible and _shit_ but did that metaphor go somewhere horrible fast.

Much like their current situation, actually.

The one thing that they’ve got going for them – aside from pluck, a bottomless reserve of rage and indignation, and the best dog since Old Yeller, none of which are likely to be particularly helpful at the moment ( _sorry Boomer_ ) – is that the Chosen don’t seem to know _exactly_ where they are, _yet_ , so there’s a couple places that they could, _hypothetically_ , slip through so as to not get caught or die.

Of course, since the universe and the Monkey god both apparently hate them right now, all those places just lead back to St. Francis, or otherwise deeper into the Whitetails and – presumably – a metric shitton more Peggies.

Which, in the immortal words of Eli Palmer, is less than ideal.

So they sink into their scant cover, sweating and swearing under their breaths, and Robin watches as Staci quietly falls to pieces and all the hope dies in the eyes of her allies.

And that’s when the thought hits her.

And were it a corporeal thing she’d probably hit it right back, because it’s absolutely fucking _horrible_.

And yet…

Robin’s eyes track over the people around her – Thistle Thornton, grey-faced and grim, death-griping a pistol in her remaining hand; Nestor Doyle, teeth bared in a not smile, eyes empty, more than ready to see how many Peggies he can take down before he goes; Duke, arrow knocked and sighting down someone from under his cover, steely eyed enough to do Jess proud; Everett Haley, eyes wet with tears but hands as still as iron on his rifle; and Staci, curled up at her feet, deathly silent as tears track down his face, empty and hollow in a way he hadn’t even been in the cage. These people… her allies, friends, _partner_ … are all about to die or worse.

Unless.

Eerily calm, Robin sinks down to the ground, kneeling next to Staci and cupping his cheek gently in one steady hand. His eyes are on her the second she starts moving, tears falling faster as he shakes and looks at her with pure desolation and _guilt_ , and the second she opens her mouth he beats her to the punch, his voice painfully choked. “You shouldn’t have come for me.” Chances are his voice actually _is_ too quiet to be picked up by the Chosen, but in their little corner of the forest its practically a gunshot – everyone’s heads whipping around to the two deputies the second the first word falls from Staci’s mouth. For his own part, Staci doesn’t notice the audience; doesn’t actually seem to be aware of there being anyone left in the world but the two of them. “I’m… I’m not worth it. And now _he’s_ going to…” Staci’s voice pitches up into a terrified keen for a split second before catching in his throat, strangled into silence as a reel of waking nightmares visibly dance behind his eyes. There’s a moment, brief and particularly horrifying, where once again Robin thinks he might actually be having a heart attack from sheer terror – his pupils blowing wide, breath choking him, whole body seizing violently. Then, just as suddenly, his eyes are back on her. “I’m sorry.” A new flood of tears streams down his face as he shakes and whimpers, looking a second away from bashing his head against the rocks at their feet from anguished guilt. “I’m so sorry, Robby. You shouldn’t have come for me. You shou-”

“Hey.” Her other hand claps down on his face, not actually over his mouth but stopping the flow of hysterical guilt all the same. Calmly, steadily, and not crying herself in the least, Robin stares her friend down, holding him together with hands and eyes and sheer force of will. “Shut the hell up.”

There’s a split second where it’s just the two of them in the world, Staci staring up all shocked into her eyes, tears slowing as he peers deep and sees something that makes him look more and more horrified, head starting to shake slowly because – whatever jokes they used to throw around, side-by-side with balls of crumpled paper and insults and filthy words and gesture during downtime at the precinct – Staci Pratt is so much more than a pretty face, because he has always been weirdly good at reading her, and because – apparently – not even whatever Jacob Seed did to him is enough to stamp out that infuriatingly endearing big-brother instinct that he’d developed for her right off the bat. And, honestly, it does actually warm her crumpled, broken little heart – the knowing he gives a damn about her almost as much as the sign that her Staci’s still alive and kicking. But that’s not what’s needed right now. And so – still keeping one hand on Staci – she turns and shoots Nestor a sharp ‘get over here, jackass’ nod.

The Whitetail scrambles over to them, as quickly as he can silently go, eyes flicking over Staci with profound concern before coming to rest on her face. At which point they go even more concerned, because apparently Robin’s doing a shit job of concealing something or other and the moment, so – just as he’s leaning in close and opening his mouth – she looks him dead in the eye and _Orders_.

“Get ready to move.”

The hushed whisper hangs in the air for a moment, and everything and everyone around her goes immediately still. She can feel Staci’s painful stillness under her hand, feel the eyes of the other Whitetails on her, feel the horror mounting to exploding inside Nestor as his mouth works silently and he just _stares_ at her before – finally – he manages to make his voice make sounds. “Dep, you _can’t_ –”

“ _Nestor_.” She gets a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly and staring down into his eyes. “You take Staci, and you get him _out_ of here.” She feels her partner flinch at his name, and pushes it to the back of her mind because she _cannot_ get distracted right now – because she _has_ to get this across, _has_ to get Nestor to Obey. Because she _needs_ to save Staci – _just this one person, just **him** , just one person for me to not **fail**_ – no matter what. “Get him back into Henbane, to the Jail – _Nestor_ ,” his jaw clicks shut, eyes wide as Robin stares him down, channels every bit of Command and Authority and Do What I Fucking Say into her eyes and her voice. She holds his gaze – one second, two, three, four – until she sees him crack, sees his resolve and determination give way, sees the shadow of Eli Palmer – _Our people are **not** expendable_ – get burned out by the blaze of her Command, leaving compliance and raw guilt in its wake. And she kind of thinks she should feel guilty, so when she speaks again she lets her voice go a little softer, tries to let the tone of it tell Nestor that it’s all fine, that it’s really the only choice they’ve got, that she’s really the only one who’s got a chance of giving them the window to get away and that getting Staci to safety is _important_ enough for all the risk. “Wait until you see a window, then go.”

Nestor manages to hold her gaze for a few seconds longer. Then, the guilt of someone who’s watched too many friends and allies play the sacrifice to give others a fighting chance bleeding through his face, he drops his eyes away from hers and nods.

Robin swallows down against a sour tang in her mouth – a fun little medley of fear and guilt and enraged helplessness – and makes herself squeeze his shoulder once more, aiming for comforting and companionable and probably only achieving a sort of tired resignation. Then, letting go with both hands – and trying not to let Staci’s broken little whimper get to her – she takes a knee and clicks her tongue twice. In less than a second she’s got a muzzle up in her face, her dog snuffling and clambering over her silently, tongue lapping over her face as he tries to comfort her – palpably relieved that his silly person is _finally_ letting him do one of his jobs. Robin lets him, doesn’t even give a token protest as he washes her face with saliva of highly questionable hygiene and frankly horrifying breath. She just… holds him for a second. Digs her fingers into his fur, skritching along his neck and up behind his ears, and lets him tell her – his doggy voice clearer in the moment than most people will ever be in their whole damn lives – that it’s all going to be ok, that the two of them will take care of the Bad People and then everyone can go Home and have Treats and everything will Be Good. He makes it sound really nice. He makes it sound _possible_. And for just a second she can actually buy that it might work – that they’ve actually got a real shot at everything playing out ok and she’s not just letting the fear and the adrenaline and the exhaustion and the trauma put words into her dog’s mouth. And, hell, maybe they _could_ pull it off, just her and Boomer.

But that’s just not a risk she can take.

Because Eden’s Gate and the Peggies – because the _fucking Seeds_ – have taken too much already, she’s not going to let them take her little pack of Whitetails, she’s _not_ going to let them take Staci _again_ , and she’s _damn well **not**_ letting them take her damn _dog_!

So, shoving down the deceitful little glimmer of hope, she steels herself and pulls back a little, voice just a touch raw as she whispers, “Boomer…” Big doggy eyes stare up at her, closing her throat down instantly in a way that no human’s ever going to quite pull off. It takes her a second get herself back under control, internally cursing herself up one side and down another for being such a fucking girl in the face of her dog’s love and concern, but she finally gets that control back, huffing out a little _-hist-_ and flicking two fingers pointedly towards Staci in the sign for Guard that’s she’s worked out for her team – the two and four legged members alike. The second she makes the gesture Boomer goes still. Just… stares up at her in confusion. Like he can’t quite figure out why she’s telling him to Guard when there’s Bad People to stop. Feeling a whole new surge of guilt come rising up inside her, Robin forces herself to push ahead, to keep her voice level as she rubs her dog’s ears and whispers, “You take care of Staci, ok?” And just like that Boomer _flinches_ like she’s hit him, and damn it he _has_ to understand her, has to know _exactly_ what she’s saying, no matter how ridiculous it sounds to apply this degree of human understanding to a dog, because he’s looking up at her and she can tell he’s _begging_ her to not make him leave. And it breaks her jacked up heart all the more, but apparently today is the day for that, so she just pets her dog and talks to him like she would anyone else. Tries to keep all the guilt and heartbreak out of her voice as she sighs, “I need you to do this for me, buddy.” And, again, he _has_ to understand her, because his tail curls up under him and he whines quietly like he’s about to die, but he lifts his head up and gives her one last lick before settling himself down at Staci’s feet. Heat prickling up behind her eyes, Robin forces a smile and gives Boomer one last scratch behind the ear. “Good boy.”

And then, taking a deep – almost painful – breath, she gets back up to her feet and turns back towards St. Francis.

“ _No!_ ” The hiss is gunshot loud in the stillness, and nearly as startling as the hand that darts out and clamps on her forearm, dragging her back so suddenly that she’s actually got a knife in hand before she realizes it’s Staci, staring up at her in blind, wild eyed horror, trying to pull her close and down, completely oblivious to the silent panic of the Whitetails around him or the threat of the still approaching Chosen as he tries to _stop_ her. He’s crying again, a new flood of tears spilling down his face as he clings to her, as he trembles and _sobs_ , “Robby, _no_.”

And fuck, if making the break with Boomer didn’t make her feel like an utter bastard then she sure as hell does now. But she can’t think about that right now, she’s got a job to do, she’s got to get them out _alive_ , no matter what. So she lets herself get pulled in just enough to get a hand on Staci’s cheek, shushing him gently as she forces the most genuine smile she can manage. “It’s going to be ok, Staci.” The words burn her almost as much as the look in her partner’s eyes, the agony and the guilt and the desperate, grasping attempt at _hope_ ripping her up even as she makes herself say, “I’ll see you soon,” and then, feeling another little piece of her soul crumble up into dust, she smiles like the sunshine and lies once more. “Promise.”

And Staci? Staci stares at her for a long moment, then gives a full bodied shake and crumbles just like Boomer did, hand falling away from her as his head just sort of _falls_ , little tremors and sobs wracking him silently.

And in that moment, Robin’d _really_ like to join him.

But she can’t.

So instead she turns again, doesn’t let herself look back at her partner or the militia, doesn’t let herself think about how the chances that she’ll ever see any of them again are looking _really_ slim right now.

And then, just as she’s taken a few steps, Nestor decides to be an utter bastard. “Dep.” His voice is weak, tired, choked up with helplessness and guilt, and at least he doesn’t sound like he’s trying to stop her but he’s sure as hell not making things any easy, letting the word hang in the air around her until she gives in and looks back. Nestor meets her eyes, looking sick and worn down, a few dozen thoughts visibly passing over his tongue before he finally settles on, “There’s got to be nearly two dozen Chosen and Judges out there.”

She laughs. Just a little. Knows it’s a dick move but can’t really help it, because no _shit_ Nestor, she hadn’t guessed that. And then, even though it’s totally founded, she gets stabbed with a new pang of guilt when Nestor flinches, because _yeah_ , _obviously_ they all know what they’re up against, but he still only said it because he gives a damn. Because he knows that even though she’s got the best shot at whatever madness she’s about to pull, even though he knows they’d probably all be dead or captured already if she hadn’t been there, he’s still feeling like he’s sending her off to death or worse. So, even though she kind of thinks she’s about to break down into a thousand tiny pieces, Robin cocks her head, makes her face go all confident and cocky, and drawls, “Yeah, I know.” And then, like she’s finally learned to lie to herself and others alike, something warm blooms up in her chest, and she can feel the expression start to turn genuine, her smile going more lopsided and wolf-sharp, curling up into her eyes, and like someone’s flicked a switch she can see Nestor and Thistle and Everett and Duke all start, straighten up, look up at her with just a little of that impossible hero worship that the Resistance has somehow bought into where she stands, hope starting to wake back up in their eyes, and she just _pulls_ on that, accepts it for once, lets it flood into her like a shot of adrenaline, and when she speaks again even _she_ finds herself believing the sardonic certainty as she purrs, “Stupid bastards should’ve brought some friends with them.”

And then, before the clock can strike midnight and turn her murder pumpkin back to just another cracked and mushy squash, she turns and darts out into the forest.

Somehow it’s easy, flitting through the trees and over the rocks silently like some kind of murderous forest faerie, like the fairy tale’s been turned on its head and Little Red Riding Robin the one stalking the Big Bad Seed’s pack of psychos. There’s a freakish sort of clarity as she moves, effortlessly spotting Chosen and Judges, skirting around them and marking out where their buddies are as her mind races, working on angles and tactics and all that fun stuff that makes killing Peggies so much easier. It’s like her moment of despair, her heartbreak as she cut herself off from the ones she cares about, her transparent lies to send them away, her brief decent into blind _fear_ somehow honed her, brought her game up to a whole new level, like she’s pushed through some invisible barrier and emerged as a motherfucking butterfly of death and destruction. Or maybe it’s just that between all the trauma and shit she’s gone through, plus what’s at stake, she’s just decided that fuckit she’s got nothing to lose and that’s what’s doing it. Who the hell knows?

(She doesn’t let herself think about Sacrifice. Doesn’t think about Strength or Weakness or any of that bullshit. That way madness lies.)

In the end it’s almost _embarrassing_ how easily she gets herself into just the right spot for what she’s planning, a ways off from where her people are still waiting, behind the majority of the Peggies and off to the side, the bulk of the Whitetail Mountains to her back as she shrugs her bow into her hand and sights down on the cultists moving all stealthy like through the woods below her.

She waits, watches, keeps her bowstring taunt and when a few of them cluster up _just_ right she feels her lips pull back savagely as she purrs, “Smile boys,” and lets the arrow fly.

It hits one of the Chosen dead center, turning him to mist and chunks as it sends his pals and their Judges flying, tearing some apart and knocking the others against the surrounding rocks and trees. The others, the ones outside the blast radius, _scatter_ , diving for cover and hissing out at each other as they scan the area in her direction. By the time they’ve coordinated themselves, of course, Robin’s already moved, is lining up another shot, this one catching a cultist in the back and setting him on pretty, pretty fire – _burn baby burn_ – as she darts through the trees again, circling and firing again and again and again, trying to draw as many cultists off of her people as she can.

At last one of them catches sight of her, barking out to his buddies and firing off an arrow that _narrowly_ misses her head, and that marks the start of Phase Two.

From behind her tree Robin takes a long, steadying breath, tugs the hood of her jacket back off her head, and breaks cover to shoot another arrow off at the Chosen. Then she waits, just long enough for one of them to break cover, get a good look at her, and freeze. Robin locks eyes with that guy for a second. Then she smiles, flips him off, and – after firing one more arrow off into a guy behind him – turns and sprints deeper into the Whitetail Mountains, away from the rescuers and rescued.

 _Catch me if you can, you stupid bastards._ She smiles, all teeth and nerves, as she pelts through the forest, the suddenly desperate cries of the Peggies ringing out around her. _I’m fucking ready for you._

##############

She was not ready for them.

 _Shit_ but was she not ready for them.

Yeah, as it turns out… Robin _may_ have underestimated the Chosen.

Just a little bit.

Or a lot.

Definitely a lot.

Shit.

Apparently the paramilitary branch of the overpowered cult, trained to be ruthless hunter-killers by a terrifying and insane former paratrooper, fueled by religious mania and the furthest extent of Social Darwinism and backed by drugged-up dire wolves… were pretty good at their job.

Who’d’ve thunk it?

Probably everyone, actually, which is making Robin seriously reconsider her earlier hubris regarding her chances of getting out of this particular shitstorm. Because said chances? Not looking so great.

An arrow impacts into the bark of a tree just by her shoulder ( _leave my shoulders **alone** , damn it!_), and Robin flings herself off to the side, tucking and rolling behind a gnarled old pine, fishing through her pack in a muted sort of panic for something explosive as she just barely hears the steady approach of the Chosen over the rush of a nearby waterfall. Her fingers swim through a whole lot of empty air before finally clamping down on a proximity explosive, a torrent of profanity springing up inside her head as she realizes it’s her last one. But – the nature of beggars and their ability to chose being what it is – she doesn’t waste any time, just breaks cover long enough to chuck the sonovabitch at largest cluster of Peggies she thinks there is and _books_ it in the opposite direction, temporarily forgoing any attempts at evasion in favor of just fucking _sprinting_ , trying to put as much distance between the Chosen and herself while they’re – hopefully – distracted by the explosion and/or their own deaths.

On the one hand, no one’s shooting at her from behind – so win.

On the other hand, she… _may_ have failed to spot the small cluster of Chosen that’s waiting _in front_ of her – so… less win.

Pretty much the only good thing about her present circumstance, in fact, is that – somehow – _they_ didn’t seem to notice her either. Which means that when she _literally_ runs into one of them she has _just_ enough time to process what the hell is happening, grab the guy who’s just working out what’s going on himself and getting a hand clamped down on her jacket, and – not taking the chance of thinking – use every muscle she’s got to fling the both of them over the edge they’re right up on.

Somewhere during their plummet her mind finds the time to think that – if she survives this – she should probably try and figure out how every trip to the Whitetails ends up with her throwing herself from a great height.

And then there’s no more time for anything as they hit the water, luck or muscle memory or divine providence putting the Peggy underneath her to take the bulk of the impact, but said impact jarring her like a _bitch_ regardless – knocking all the air out of her and making her vision go white for a moment, so that she comes back to her senses an indeterminate amount of time later beneath the surface and rapidly drowning.

Lizard brain kicking in, overriding the disorientation and panic and whatever else, Robin lets the current pull her along and focuses on going what she thinks is up. And point for the lizard brain, she breaks the surface just as her vision’s going dark, gasping and spluttering as she tries to stay up long enough to stop dying. And then, because nothing good that happens to her fucking _lasts_ these days, she hears someone shouting from nearby enough to be dangerous – the exact words not processing but the tone screaming _Peggy_ at her like crazy – and, with a bit of mental profanity, she makes herself dive back down beneath the water.

A while later – feels like an hour, is probably only a few minutes – she finally drags herself up onto dry land, coughing and sputtering and trying to get her feet back under her even as she fights to breathe. There’s nothing _currently_ shooting at her or anything, but she’s kind of figured she should stop taking that as any kind of positive sign so the second she’s got her footing she bolts away from the river.

She makes it about three feet before her legs give out and she’s eating loam.

Turns out falling from a great height into a really cold and turbulent river, then swimming for a long ass time with too few hits of actual air _isn’t_ conducive to running like a mofo.

Who knew? Again.

Swearing profusely inside her head, Robin forces herself to breath as levelly and deeply as she can, keeping her senses peeled as best as possible for anyone coming up on her while she tries to recover enough.

Best she can figure – over the pounding of her own pulse in her ears and the red hot spike of agony telling her that she _seriously_ fucked up her right shoulder in the fall ( _always the **right** arm, **why** is it always the **right fucking arm?!**_ ) – is that there’s no one standing directly over her at that exact moment.

Exhausted, injured, lost as all hell in the actual woods, and very rapidly losing any sense of hope whatsoever, she decides that she’s going to call it a win.

Heaven, Hell, and everything in between knows she needs one.

It takes a minute – probably – to get her lungs and heart and everything else calmed down enough to… well, not cooperate, precisely, but obey her (not entirely cooperative itself) brain with a fair amount of screamed protests. But, when she does, she’s still apparently alone and so forces herself to hold position long enough to try and get some kind of lay of the land.

She’d been _aiming_ for Baron Lumber Mill. The Chosen, unfortunately, were not as stupid as most of the Peggies in Holland Valley or Henbane and had caught onto that pretty quickly, moving and shifting themselves to cut her off from that shot at asylum. And then they’d done likewise when they’d gotten near the F.A.N.G. Center, driving her away from friendly territory and deeper into the untamed wilds. She’s pretty sure – in her possibly semi-concussed state – that she’s just come popping up on the West side of the Moccasin River, which – since she doesn’t have the _foggiest_ how far down she traveled – pretty much puts her somewhere dead in the middle of the Whitetail territory. And she doesn’t see the Ranger Station, because of _course_ she doesn’t, why _would_ she be anywhere near any kind of help?

It’s slowly – very, _very_ slowly, hello much higher chances of concussion – occurring to her that her best bet is to try and follow the river, let it lead her down to Silver Lake and her probably best shot at getting to either Dutch’s Island or Henbane – or _literally_ anywhere that’s not the Whitetails, really – when her weird bout of uncharacteristic lucks runs right the hell out in the form of a Chosen come popping out from behind a tree.

For a second everything freezes – the Peggy shocked and Robin exasperated beyond reason.

Then everything explodes into motion.

The cultist already has his bow out and arrow nocked, so all he has to do is take aim. Robin, meanwhile, only managed to hang onto _her_ bow after her little swim because it was all strapped down and did _not_ have such luck with her few remaining arrows, and – consequentially – finds herself at a significant disadvantage.

Which is why she forgoes the bow and just whips out her 1911, putting a bullet between the Peggy’s eyes even as she diving out the way of his arrow.

Unfortunately, this also means she’s a little bit distracted. _Just_ too distracted, in fact, to notice the Peggy’s buddy. Or _his_ bow. At least until an arrow comes out of nowhere and sinks deep into her right thigh.

She’s turning the second the pain registers – whipping around and firing off a second shot towards the guy who hit her, only managing to put a bullet into a tree as the Peggy vanishes behind cover. Robin, of course, then immediately turns and makes a break for cover herself.

This time she makes it about seven feet before something hits her, her head going all loopy and muscles turning briefly to Jell-o, the world spinning around her like it’s on a bender as she collapses behind a tree.

And that’s when it hits her.

Bliss arrows.

The cheating _bastards_ have _Bliss arrows_.

Oh well now that’s just not _fair_.

And, also, that is _not_ good.

 _Shit_.

It also hits her that she doesn’t have a lot of time. Judging by how things worked in Holland Valley, getting Bliss directly in the bloodstream fucks you up a _hell_ of a lot faster than inhaling or ingesting – and both of _those_ methods worked faster than she was ok with anyway. Hell, she can already feel the junk taking hold; the initial dizziness ramping up and up until the world’s going all topsy-turvy. Even without Peggy Two still out there – probably biding his sweet time until she’s too Blissed up to fight back – the situation is _bad_ , and she needs to come up with _something_ but quick.

Unfortunately, the only thought that comes to her… is just absolutely fucking _horrible_.

Which seems to be the theme of the day, really.

Swearing – slurring – under her breath, Robin tears her belt off with clumsy fingers, somehow manages to get it off her waist and around her leg, then pulls it tight enough to hurt like a _bitch_ and – once she’s somewhat confident that her tourniquet is in place – twists so she can see the arrow sticking out of her leg. It’s in her pretty deep, which makes the already horrible situation and potential solution all the worse and – for the splittest of split-seconds – she seriously gives thought to just calling it a day and accepting Hell.

Then she swears again, telling the Bliss in her bloodstream to knock that defeatist shit off already, and pulls her last first aid kit out of her pack at the same moment she grabs hold of the arrow just above where it’s sunk inside her.

She takes one long, deep breath, followed by a series of short, sharp ones and – deciding she’s allowed a little indulgence – shuts her eyes tight. “Don’tbleedoutdon’tbleedoutdon’tbleedoutdon’tbleedoutdon’tbleed- _mother **fu**_ -”

White hot heat washes over her, vision exploding with bright lights and fireworks as she _yanks_ the arrow out. Then, as her eyes are still pretending it’s the Fourth of July, she grabs a wad of gauze from the kit and just starts _shoving_ it into the now gushing wound in her leg. Her eyesight’s just starting to clear up when the last of the thin woven cotton’s disappeared inside of her, giving her the edge she needs to fumble through the kit again, snatching up some medical tape and a roll of bandages – the latter of which is _immediately_ wrapped anaconda tight around her stuffed wound and secured with the former.

When she’s done the makeshift patch-job looks ugly as balls, her entire body’s _screaming_ in agony, and she’s still loopy as all get out from the Bliss in her system.

But, the loopiness isn’t getting worse _fast_.

And, more importantly, she’s got enough presence of mind to realize that Peggy Two is making his way cautiously towards her.

Slurring a few choice profanities under her breath, Robin fumbles her 1911 back up into her grip, quickly checks the magazine… and feels the stirrings of sick, cold terror try to well up underneath the haze of Bliss when she sees it’s empty.

Blinking, trying to keep her mind under her own control, she fumbles for her pack, clumsy fingers nearly spilling the contents over the ground. And then the terror tries to well up once again, the disorienting sensation of what she _should_ be feeling coming smack up against what the Bliss _wants_ her to feel as she realizes that – apart from a few unopened MREs, the components to make a few _parts_ of various explosives, a handful of herbs and a Cheeseburger bobble-head – her pack is fucking _empty_.

Which means that her current status is – lost, exhausted, alone, injured, injured _more_ , Blissed up, and completely out of ammunition, with at least one of Jacob Seed’s pet psychopaths stalking up on her.

In other words – _she’s **fucked**_.

And thanks to the Bliss running rampant through her bloodstream she barely even minds.

In fact, it’s getting significantly harder to mind _anything_ at the moment. Whatever good her tourniquet and arrow-removal has done – and she _does_ think it’s helped, going by past experience – is quickly falling by the wayside. Already the blinding pain in her leg and the throb of her shoulder are dying away, her body starting to feel all light and floaty. There’s sparkles dancing all through the air too, and the steady rustle coming her way from Peggy Two doesn’t fill her with anywhere near the dread it should. Her head’s lolling on her shoulders, feeling heavy and like it’s been stuffed with nearly as much cotton as her leg, and more and more all she wants to do is just lay it down and close her heavy eyes, listen to the candy sweet voice that’s purring in her mind, “It wouldn’t _really_ be so bad, would it” and –

**There’s nowhere you can run.**

_You should have just killed yourself when you had the chance_

**We’re going to take such good care of you.**

_Now they won’t_ ever _let you go_

**It won’t be long now.**

_You have no idea what they’re going to do to you_

Robin’s eyes fly open, the cacophony of voices and thoughts and candy-coated sparkles going completely silent for a single, disorienting moment.

Then, breathing slowly, her left hand curls into a fist.

To hell with it.

To hell with the Bliss.

To hell with the Seeds.

To hell with her own damn self, and whatever traitorous little part of her that thinks she should just _give up_.

No.

Deputy Robin Baird will _not_ go placidly and quietly into hell and damnation.

Deputy Robin Baird will go down kicking and screaming like a damn feral motherfucker, taking as many Peggy bastards with her as she can, or she will not go down at all.

And so, breathing steadily, she forces her feet up under her, finds some kind of balance, and _slams_ her fist against her injured shoulder as hard as she can manage.

She doesn’t feel it, not beyond the sudden pressure; the Bliss soothing out all the rough edges and sharp corners of the world. So she raises her fist and slams it down again. This time there’s a faint shock of pain, a split second of sensation that flitters through all the clouds and sparks of light. So Robin raises her fist once more, grits her teeth, and brings it down a third time. And _this_ time her world _explodes_.

A white hot rush of heat and agony crashes over her, starting in her shoulder and radiating out through the rest of her body, as the fucked up part of her body coming screaming to life as the Bliss _evaporates_ for a moment, the soft and pretty lies vanishing in the face of brutal reality.

And _there’s_ the rage.

And not a moment too soon.

There’s the heart-stopping snap of a twig not six feet away from her, and Robin grabs a hold of every scrap of rage and adrenaline and raw spite that she possesses and channels it into her limbs, flinging herself upwards and forwards, bolting deeper into the forest, Peggy Two’s shocked cry ringing out behind her as she runs, and she’s got even less of an idea of where she is than she had before but she doesn’t really have the time – or the mental wherewithal – to waste on that. And she knows that – in her present condition – fighting back or trying to hide aren’t options, aren’t even worth considering. So she runs – the forest racing and blurring past her, some vague notion of following the river the only thing giving her any sense of direction. She runs – trying to outpace the Bliss that keeps threatening to overwhelm her senses, to pull her back down into its false paradise, to drown out all the agony, physical and otherwise. She runs – hearing voices and howls and footfalls behind her, hearing the chirps of radios and the quickly approaching roar of engines. She runs – following the siren song of _escape_ like her life depends on it, because _shit_ it just _might_.

She runs, and she runs, and she runs, and –

Robin breaks through the tree line, nearly stumbles over the suddenly clear ground, and sees the water of Silver Lake shining out in front of her.

And that’s when the second arrow sinks home, just above where the first one had hit.

She barely notices it at first, a gnat’s sting in the midst of everything else. She even makes it another dozen feet or so. But then her leg buckles and she falls, hits the ground _hard_ and she’d already made it to the incline of the hill so she rolls, catches rocks and bushes and all kinds of unpleasant shit on her way down, finally slamming up against a boulder with an ugly - _crack_ \- and blacking out for a moment.

She starts coming back to her senses a moment later, the world kaleidoscoping all around her, twisting and dancing in a fever dream of Bliss and agony and what – by this point – is definitely a concussion.

Sparks of light keep exploding in front of her eyes, alongside random wisps of cloud and swarms of creepy butterflies and flying flowers, and her mouth tastes like copper and burnt sugar. Her body is ridiculously heavy, every inch feeling numb and overstuffed like she’s slowly turning into some kind of life-sized rag doll. The world around her sounds like explosions going off underwater, and each breath feels like she’s trying to inhale shattered glass.

And, somehow, in the midst of all this she manages to drag herself around the boulder, feeling like she’s unraveling with each inch she travels until – unable to go any farther – she collapses on the other side, the boulder to her back and Silver Lake in front of her, _agonizingly_ close, like if she could go one inch more she’d _make it_.

It’s getting harder and harder to think of anything. Harder to do anything but _surrender_ to the Bliss. To just...

     let...

          go…

Slowly, fingers numb and clumsy and eyes burning as she stares out at the lake – waves rolling in and out like a beckoning hand, the final indignity – she manages to unclip her radio from her belt – the waterproof device _somehow_ still intact and attached after everything she’s been through – and clicks it on. Then, with an arm made of lead, she lifts it up to numb, clumsy lips.

“Eli? Eli, are you there?”

Her voice – slurred, rasping, and horribly painful – hangs all alone in the air for a few horribly slow seconds, long enough for her to wonder if the radio’s working after all. Then, gunshot quick and startling, the radio clicks back alive. _“Baird?!”_ Eli sounds utterly _shocked_ , a low current of disbelief and horror twisting his usually stoic voice. _“What in the **hell** are you doing here?!”_

A rough laugh claws its way up her throat as Robin fumbles with the radio. “I…” She barely gets the word out before the world explodes before her eyes, swarms of butterflies flying out of the clouds and sparkles before her vision goes completely white for a second, and when it all clears up again the radio’s in her lap and Eli’s spitting and swearing at her in barely contained panic. It takes a few tries before she gets a grip on the radio again, then another few seconds pass before Eli shuts up long enough for her to click it back on again. “Eli I… I’m afraid that… I _may_ have done something stupid.” Her tongue’s ridiculously heavy, clumsy like she’s too far into a bad bender, but she manages to get the words out. Then, like a slap in the face, the reality of her current situation comes blooming up from underneath all the Bliss and all the… _everything_ , and Robin’s eyes _burn_ as the fear and the pain and the raw guilt comes sweeping up over her. “Eli, I’m sorry I…” Her voice cuts out again, more from emotion than pain or Bliss this time. Shivering, body wracked and something wet tracking down her face, Robin forces her mouth to speak again, trying to shove as much apology into the few words she can scrape together as she can as she chokes out, “I may not be available to help you finish all this, after all.”

There’s a few moments of dead air, her admission lingering in the air like a death knell. Then she realizes that she’s still holding down the button on her radio and in that moment of realization her thumb slips off, Eli’s voice suddenly spilling over the airwaves as he _snarls_ at somebody in the Wolf’s Den “-don’t _care_ , just _find_ her fas-” and Tammy’s voices echoes distantly beyond him “-ear the Ranger’s Station, get people ou-” and about a half-dozen other voices shout over each other in a dizzying cacophony of panic, each voice familiar and each note of terror unfamiliar and all of it just making everything that much _worse_.

The Bliss is growing thicker, swirling and dancing around her, drowning out the voices on the radio with its own sickly sweet echoes.

_Now look at what you’ve done._

_Did you think you could just continue to do what you wanted without consequences?_

_You’re more trouble than you’re worth, Robby Red._

_All so that you could be what? A hero?_

_They put their hopes in you, and you’re just letting them all down._

_You should have just killed yourself when you had the chance_

Acid washes up into her mouth, her fingers twitching on the radio as she manages to glare at the amorphous white figure dancing around in the Bliss clouds. “You’re dead, Faith. Get outta my head.”

The figure twirls, laughs, sways over to her and kneels down, delicate rotting hands reaching out to stroke over her face as clouded eyes stare at her from over water-bloated lips pulling up into a warped smile, teeth flashing through maggot-riddled holes in sloughing cheeks, and the voice – still soft and sweet as poisoned candy – roils over her skin like a swarm of insects.

_They’re **waiting** for you, Deputy._

_Deputy._

_Deputy._

_Deputy._

_Deputy._

_Deputy._

_Dep-_

_“-uty Baird!”_ She jerks back out of the Bliss with a gasp, eyes flying wide as Eli’s voice blares out at her. _“Damn it Baird, answer me! Give me something more to go off of here! We can get someone to you, we just need a better idea –”_

A torrent of words rush over her, fading further and further away from any semblance of meaning as the Bliss tries to pull her back under. Finally, after a tense moment of silence – she thinks that maybe someone’s wrestled the radio away from Eli, trying to give her an opportunity to speak – Robin clicks her radio back on. By this point her tongue feels like it weighs a hundred pounds and the Bliss is warping everything around her, but she makes the words come out as clearly as she can. Because she’s pretty damn sure this is her last opportunity to say anything, so she needs to take it. “Eli, listen, don’t… don’t kill Wheaty, ok?” Because, somewhere around the point that they all got cornered, she got a sneaking suspicion that _somebody_ – possibly Wheaty himself – might just try, and if she gets Eli on board with this point than he’ll probably stop it. And Bliss or no Bliss she remembers that the kid doesn’t deserve that. So she forces her lips and her tongue to move, tries not to feel like she’s dictating her Last Will and Testament, and hopes that Eli will follow where she leads – hopes that the kid himself will be listening and take her words to heart. “I made him swear he’d tell me, and he didn’t know I was going to do this.”

There’s a painful silence once she lets up on the button, before Eli’s voice comes back strained and full of transparently false calm. _“Look, just…”_ The militia leader sounds like somebody’s ripping a piece out of him, like he does when he’s sending somebody off on a mission that’s almost certainly suicide – trying to hold out hope that _somehow_ there’s a shot but, deep down, knowing there just _isn’t_ – and Robin thinks she can feel her heart break, just a little, because she was really hoping that _she’d_ never have to make Eli go through that. _“We’ve got an idea of where you are, alright? Just hold out for a little bit and we’ll be right there.”_ His voice is getting distant, echo-y, and harder to pay attention to as something tries to burst into her awareness from somewhere nearby. There’s another moment of silence – belatedly it occurs that he’s waiting for her to speak – before his voice comes back, a touch more desperation bleeding through his leader’s calm. _“You hear me, Baird? Help’s on the way, so just **hold on**._”

A little ways behind her, Robin vaguely hears something go -snap- through the haze of Bliss and agony.

“Yeah…” She’s smiling, lopsided and exhausted and a little bit broken, a dull sense of despair bursting – almost zen-like – inside her as she drawls quietly into the radio. “I don’t…” Something catches in her throat and she breaks off coughing, the action sending new spikes of white hot, wet agony lancing through her. “I don’t that’s going to work.” Robin tries to breathe through the pain, succeeds – after a sort – and dutifully ignores everything as best she can as she tries to force her scattered thoughts into words ( _last words, final request, dying wish, do these things and try to forget about me and the hell that was my life_ ). “Just… just remember what I said about Wheaty, ok? He’s a good kid, he was just trying to help. And…” her throat catches again, and even in her current state she can’t successfully pretend that there aren’t tears streaming down her face, voice breaking pitifully as she gasps, “give these bastards hell, will you?”

And then, stalking out from the Bliss, a pair of boots walk up to her.

Slowly, clumsily, Robin’s head lolls back against the boulder at her back, her eyes following a line from the boots up to the balaclavaed face of a Chosen looming over her. The guy’s not moving, not actually coming at her. Instead he’s just… kind of standing there. Staring down at her like he’s not really sure what to do – like he was just going about his day-to-day and stumbled over a unicorn, the perfect blend of wonder and utter disbelief.

It’d almost be funny if it wasn’t so fucking horrible.

Her vision swims in and out of focus for a few moments, but the Peggy doesn’t move. So, slowly, Robin lifts the radio back up to her mouth. “I’ve got to go now, Eli,” she hears her own voice like it’s playing over an answering machine, disconnected and distant, a soft, apologetic murmur. “I think I’m getting reaped.”

And, like that’s a signal he didn’t know he was waiting for, the Chosen reaches down and effortlessly plucks her radio out of her numb grip.

She watches, trying and not quite managing to glare, as the guy lifts the radio up, Eli’s voice screaming out at them both, yelling for her to keep it together, to _hold the **fuck on**_ , that help’s on the way, and finally just trailing off into her name, _“Baird! Baird!”_ His uncharacteristic display of fear reaching deep down into her, struggling through the Bliss to try and stoke up some kind of fight in her, and only really managing to make a new flood of tears come tracking down her face as he gives all the way in and just _screams_ out, _**“Robin!”**_

And then, calm as can be, the Peggy turns her radio off with a nail-in-coffin click.

And then it’s just the two of them, The Deputy and a Chosen, staring at each other awkwardly on the shore of Silver Lake.

Somewhere, deep underneath the pull of the Bliss, Robin really wants to kill the guy.

But she’s already fading.

But the Bliss is already finishing its work.

But even without the Bliss she’s pretty damn sure she can’t even move anymore.

But she can’t even really see the _point_ anymore.

So, what the last lingering scraps of _her_ – the last slivers of _Rage_ she’s got – Robin forces as much of a glare into her gaze as she can manage. “These things?” She slurs out, trying to point a shaky finger in the general vicinity of the guy’s Bliss arrows, failing, and finally giving up and just sort of letting her hand fall in the general vicinity of her pin-cushioned leg. “These are _fucking **cheating**_.”

The world freezes for a second.

Then, without any transition – like the world’s decided to try out stop-motion all of a sudden – the Chosen’s kneeling down next to her, hands shaking as he checks over her leg; first the swath of bandages, then the place where the second Bliss arrow is – presumably – still lodged inside her.

Hazily, through the fog of Bliss and rapidly fading consciousness, Robin’s aware of his pulling out his own radio, barking something raw and panicked into it.

The Peggy sounds really freaked out, and she kind of feels like it’s something she should be concerned about because it’s probably a really bad si-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Aftermath of abuse/brainwashing, Imprisonment, Dehumanization, PTSD, Guilt, Violence, _**Horrible**_ and Improper First Aid, Self-harm, and Non-consensual Drug-use. Welcome back to the Whitetails.
> 
> _Well that can't be good._
> 
> _And! Speaking of things that can't be good?! Bit of advice? If you ever decide to have some fun with formatting to play around with your character's drug addled state? **Do not try to do it in HTML unless you already know what it is you're doing.** I wasted... so much time... that I will never get back trying to figure out how to do **four** small segments of this chapter all weird. I'm pretty sure part of my soul died in the process. I didn't even have that much of one to begin with. O_o (And, given that most of you are probably smart enough to have figured this out on your own, consider this your "No Duh, Genius" announcement for the day, and feel free to play Despacito at me)_
> 
> _Also? **Do not** first-aid like Robin! If you ever get shot/stabbed/impaled/whatever, **do not** remove the thing. Leave it where it is, support it/immobilize/put pressure on the injured area if possible, and seek out actual medical assistance **immediately**. Again, **do not** remove the thing stabbing you yourself, and **definitely** don't go running through the woods afterwards. Unless you... actually find yourself being chased by actual doomsday cultists looking to drug, kidnap, and brainwash you, in which case... I... I don't know y'all, I think you'll have bigger problems at hand and I'm honestly not sure what advice to give you._
> 
> _Well folks, we're in the final stretch! Hope you enjoyed, and see y'all next week!!! ^x^/_
> 
>  
> 
> _Title comes from "Dead Girl Walking (Reprise)" from Heathers: The Musical. Because I'm a filthy theater nerd._


	15. Interlude: Jacob - Dear Rabbit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Y'all knew we were going to see Jacob one more time before this leg of the journey got wrapped up. ;)_
> 
> _Ahem._
> 
> **He wanted to say...**

It’s dark by the time Jacob manages to shut down enough to make his way back to Joseph’s house – swallows everything down and forces some veneer of control back into place, makes his way on instinct, tense and fighting the urge to tremble, feeling raw and open and exposed as the locals fall over themselves to clear a path for him. Miller follows him all the way through the compound, laughing and talking and dancing his dead hands across Jacob’s skin, only stopping when Jacob finally hits the door, grinning and waving cheekily at Jacob as he rattles out _“See you soon, buddy”_ before the door closes and shuts him out for the moment.

Jacob’s brothers are waiting inside, curled up together on a sofa. Johnny’s nestled against Joe’s side, arms wrapped around his waist and head resting on his shoulder as he sighs and twitches in his sleep. Joe’s hugging him back, lightly, one hand stroking his hair while the other holds and pets at the Words around Johnny’s left hand and wrist. The moment Jacob steps into view the petting stops.

There’s a moment of still silence, Jacob staring down at his brothers – his soulmates, his reasons, his greatest treasures and greatest sins – while Joseph stares serenely up at him.

Then, just as Jacob feels like all his pieced together control and composure is about to fall to pieces – and tear him apart as it does – Joseph moves.

Joe lifts his hand, holds it out to Jacob, and tears well up in his eyes as he smiles.

Jacob feels his heart break – shame and guilt and undeserved relief washing over him – and he crosses the distance to take that hand, lets it caress the Words on his skin, lets himself be pulled down against Joe’s other side, rests his head against his brother’s and wraps his arms around his brothers, pulls them close and can’t quite stop all of the shudder that escapes him when Johnny mewls his way out of his slumber and reaches out to curl his fingers into Jacob’s shirt – under his left collarbone, over his heart – and once again his brothers forgive him and welcome him home.

“It’s going to be alright.” Joe promises, pulling them closer, pulling their ‘marked hands up to where he can breathe his promises against their skin. “We’ll find her, bring her safely home, and then…” Joe trails off with a sigh, and Jacob can feel his lips pull up into a blissful smile against their skin. “And then everything will finally be _right_.”

Johnny sobs quietly, burrows deeper into their arms, and breathes a euphoric little “ _Yes_.”

Jacob shudders, curls himself around his brothers, and tries to believe.

##############

Eventually they separate, slowly and reluctantly untangling themselves from each other. Joseph gets to his feet, pacing steadily as he starts working out a plan, outlining the importance of letting _their_ people know how important it is that The Deputy be found and brought back alive and _unharmed_ without letting anything slip to the Resistance ( _if they haven’t already figured it out_ , goes unsaid), slowly setting upon the idea of crafting special units from amongst the faithful, teams with this one dedicated mission, prepared and ready to move between the regions at a moment’s notice. John perches himself on the edge of the couch, that horrible, destructive energy finally bled out of him as he watches, occasionally supplying information and volunteering suggestions, taking sparks of ideas from Joseph and stoking them, building something greater and greater with each fervent breath. Jacob listens silently to them both, instinctively taking in all the information and categorizing it, filing it away so that he can come back later and clean it up, refine and fine-tune his brothers’ untrained vision. 

As they do that, fall back into the old familiar rhythm, Jacob applies himself to fixing the bandages that have appeared on Johnny since Jacob’s… episode. It takes a minute, as the wounds themselves have properly cleaned and cared for – of course – but the bandages themselves are… well… they’re just… Alright, there’s no being diplomatic with it – Joseph’s _long_ list of accomplishments just doesn’t include the ability to properly apply bandages. He’s _so_ weirdly bad at it that it’s kind of adorable, honestly.

So his brothers plan and Jacob listens, their equilibrium coming back, and Jacob tries to lose himself in the familiar routine. 

But…

His brothers are so hopeful. Damn it, no, they’re not even that. They’re… expectant. They’re looking at the whole matter like it’s just a question of logistics – of finding their sou- The Deputy and bringing her back before the Resistance can sequester her somewhere as leverage. Like everything’s settled and they just need to sort out the last few details. Like the biggest threat to their happiness is the Resistance. Like there’s fundamentally nothing to worry about because _of course_ everything’s going to go the way they want it; after all, Joseph’s Voice has spoken and she’s their –

Jacob watches his brothers plan and _wait_ for their supposed inevitability, and wonders if he’s the only one who remembers that the only reason The Deputy isn’t with them in that exact moment is because she _ran_. Because she’s _been_ running. Because she’s known all along and because she said _“No.”_

Jacob watches his brothers rejoice and he’s afraid.

##############

In the days that follow Joseph and John are like men possessed – an otherworldly fire lighting them up inside and driving them forward, balancing their duties to the Project and their search for - The Deputy with barely any sign of strain.

Oh they’re scared, definitely. Every day that passes without sight of - her leaves them more and more tense, a little more raw and frenetic. John wears the evidence of increasingly brutal confessions no matter how thoroughly he scrubs, and the first signs that destructive energy are starting to show back up. Joseph’s sermons and speeches and prayers go from something enthralling to something overwhelming, firestorms and hurricanes and the crushing weight of the ocean falling from his lips as he speaks of divine plans and purpose and _promise_ , of faith and belief and the Eden that waits for them. And yet, even with that tension, it’s that same certainty they’d held, the one that had scared – still scares – Jacob so much, that’s holding them together.

Against all odds and expectations, Joseph and John are actually handling the impossible situation.

It’s Jacob that’s falling apart.

Jacob, who’s spent twenty-two years trying not to think of the Words on his right arm – the promise broken before he ever spoke it, the greatest sin he’s yet to commit, the summation of everything he should be but isn’t. Twenty-two years wanting but not daring to pray for mercy – not for himself (he doesn’t deserve any) but for the nameless, faceless sacrificial innocent who he’s been forced upon since birth. Twenty-two years trapped and torn apart by the knowledge of what he is. Twenty-two years knowing that every day he is hurting and hurting and _hurting_ someone that he’s _supposed_ to love and protect and care for, just by _existing_.

Jacob, who’s realizing just how _horribly_ he’s underestimated his ability to hurt.

He keeps seeing her face, all those months ago in the church, when she’d marched into hell and her soul started to rip itself apart. He remembers the absolute _desolation_ on her face and in her eyes when she’d realized the truth. When her soul had looked at her and seen an enemy. When the first Words she’d had from any of them had caused her pain.

He still doesn’t know what Joseph said to her, but he remembers the agony it caused.

He doesn’t know what John said to her, vicious and hungry in the freezing waters of his Baptism, but the possibilities of it make his stomach twist.

He doesn’t know what _he’ll_ say to her, what Words she’s worn on her back of her neck for the past sixteen years, but he can imagine and it makes his blood run cold.

He can’t begin to imagine what Words like theirs must have done to an innocent six year old – expecting love and protection and belonging, receiving only fear and pain and cruelty. But he knows that no atonement will ever make it right.

##############

Days pass. They search. They wait for any sign of her – _”You know she’s got a **name** , right Jake? Sweet little name. Pretty. A pun.”_ – to appear. Wait for her to resurface. 

Except she doesn’t.

Days pass and there’s no sign of The Deputy – _”Seriously, Jake. You’ve ruined that poor little girl’s life, the **least** you can do is acknowledge her fucking **name.** ”_ – anywhere in Hope County.

Jacob tries to keep busy, but somehow he can’t manage it. For once it seems as though there’s not enough work, not enough for him to do to numb his mind with tasks and purpose. Even the sudden upswing of militia activity isn’t enough to distract him.

In the end, flailing and searching for _something_ , he finds himself researching _her_. 

He’d started as soon as they’d learned the identity of their enemy, learned that the Rook of the Resistance was the pretty little deputy who’d given them the slip at the start of the Reaping. He’d gathered up every resource he could find, hunting out every last detail to better understand his enemy. There hadn’t been much. The Deputy, he’d learned quickly, hadn’t really been in Hope County long enough for anyone to really _learn_ anything much about her. The house she’d been leasing had already been claimed by The Project, raided for anything useful and everything else destroyed, the impatient destruction costing him enough insight for the action to gall him. He’d had Nancy, tucked neatly away in Joseph’s compound; but their mole hadn’t been able to give him much, and her best lead had been Pratt, which quickly proved to be misguided. Back then the lack of information had infuriated Jacob. Now it’s practically eating him alive.

He falls back on it now, going over every detail – no matter how insignificant – again and again.

He hunts down the faithful who had searched her house, grilling them for anything and everything they remember, then paying back their undisciplined inattention with a little one-on-one training. He goes through all the possessions they’d confiscated, swears when nearly all of them prove as unenlightening as before; though one – the Ka-Bar ( _Vietnam era, belonged to a relative, father or grandfather? Carefully, no, **lovingly** maintained, someone **important**_ ) – becomes a constant part of his kit, and he finds himself turning it over and over in his hands, like one more revolution of the blade will unlock some new answers or insight. He finds himself in Joseph’s compound, seeking out Nancy again, gritting his teeth though her sycophantic fawning and slogging through her scant details and – now much more diplomatically expressed – impressions about the newest member of the Hope County Sheriff’s Department. In the end it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t have anything new to give him.

 _But_ she still _swears_ – “before The Father himself” – that new junior deputy and Staci Pratt had been friends.

Jacob heads back to St. Francis for another chat with his pet.

Their chat lasts for several hours before Peaches _finally_ manages to pull himself together long enough to give Jacob a satisfactory explanation for the conflict between his insistence of a distant work-relationship and Nancy’s assertion of friendship. The new deputy, he sobs, had come to Hope County after an incident at her first precinct that had left her skittish, an underlying discomfort around her fellow deputies in general and the male Pratt in particular. He’d seen it, understood it, and kept his distance, maintaining a polite friendliness while he waited for her to grow comfortable around him. He’d been nice, and they’d been professional, but they weren’t friends. He hadn’t actually _known_ her at all.

It’s _not_ what Jacob wants to hear. But it makes too much sense to be discounted.

It doesn’t stop him from tearing into the boy for what few details he does know, though; going after old information with new eyes and intent. By the time he’s finished he’s collected dozens of trivial, incidental facts about - her. He knows she’s a Montana native, from a county further North, one that’s technically bigger but still more insular and small-town than Hope County. He knows that she drinks her coffee black, bitter, and to excess. Knows that she largely lives off of quick, low-to-no-prep foods or hand-outs, and has a massive sweet-tooth. She doesn’t wear makeup or jewelry, not ever or of any kind, but she does have a tattoo – three ravens woven into a Celtic knot – behind her left ear. She doesn’t drive unless there’s no alternative – something the rest of the precinct jumped on after the first, apparently traumatizing time she _did_ drive. She can more than handle herself in a fight ( _no fucking kidding, Peaches_ ), and according to the rumor mill she’d put the guy who’d necessitated her transfer into intensive care ( _good gi- good, that’s…_ ). She wears prescription glasses for paperwork, but crushed several records at the shooting range under her sturdy boot heels. She’s from a law-enforcement family, generations of sheriffs and deputies going back all way to the early days of colonization, and Whitehorse had been passing familiar and respectful of her grandfather. Family’s got a history in the military too, Marines specifically – confirming what he’d gathered from the Ka-Bar – though she’d opted not to join up. She’s polite, easy-going, and vaguely friendly - all while keeping people at an impassible distance. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, but he clutches at every last scrap of information, turning them over and over like a dog with a bone.

In the end he walks away, leaves Pratt twitching and whimpering in his kennel, with a handful of familiar, incidental details.

And two suddenly important ones.

She always wears a variant of the same outfit – shirts with high necklines paired with collared jackets, and her hands and wrists wrapped up like a boxer. And she never says the first word; always, _always_ waits to speak until everyone else has.

Pratt had told him all that before, and he’d barely noticed.

Now though? Now Jacob understands. Now Jacob can see the carefully wrapped and covered skin – the left hand and wrist, the space under her collarbone and over her heart, the _back of her neck_. He can hear the calculated silence, see the tense anticipation every time a new face appeared and the relief when the danger passed. He can understand the entire lifestyle, carefully engineered and implemented and maintained for sixteen years, all to hide her _from them_.

Jacob walks away and throws himself back into his work, hunting and killing Whitetails, training his Chosen and Judges, shoring up the strength that The Project will need after the Collapse. He works until he can’t see straight, until his body aches and his mind is numb. He works until it’s time to return to Joseph’s compound, to be gathered to his brothers’ sides in fellowship. He lets them hold him close. He listens to them talk about the search. About _her_. He hears John’s voice tremble with fear and worry, and Joseph’s calm answer that every day there’s _no_ sign is a _good_ sign, because it means that either the sinners of the Resistance don’t know who she is – don’t know _whose_ she is – or that they haven’t found her.

Jacob listens and thinks of fire and death and destruction, of guarded skin and cultivated silence, of an entire life spent running and hiding and fighting. Jacob listens and he knows what loyalty looks like. What fear looks like. What _hatred_ looks like. He listens, and he thinks, and he knows. 

And he stays silent.

##############

She’s in Henbane.

More specifically, she’s _burning down_ Henbane. Bliss fields and shrines are going up in smoke at a vicious pace, patrols and harvesters are dropping like flies, the remaining outposts are _feeling_ their imminent destruction, and apparently she’s figured out how to turn the _angels_ against members of the Project. 

There seems to be a rather pointed message in all the fire and destruction.

_“Fuck. You.”_

It’s rather effective.

Joseph doesn’t seem fazed by the new development. If anything there’s a sense of satisfaction in his manner, as if the reappearance of Wrath – in all her brutal glory – is just the next step towards his Eden. John does his best to feed off that, smiling too sharply and expressing relief over the blindness of the Resistance. Jacob, who knows what loyalty looks like, grits his teeth and sends more Chosen into Henbane.

And Faith…

Faith.

Faith’s about to have a Collapse all her own.

If things with their “sister” hadn’t been going well before, then _now_ – now that her territory’s going up in smoke, now that her people are dying en masse, now that she knows who and what The Deputy _is_ – she’s like a dog in a snare, circling and snapping and going steadily mad as she grows closer and closer to gnawing off her own leg. 

Not helping her is Joseph’s reaction, his steadily growing impatience and frustration over Faith’s continued failures and failings. 

Oh Faith’s putting up a good front, smiling peacefully or looking solemn and contrite at all the right moments. She’s welcomed John and Jacob’s faithful into her region with open arms, and her prayers for their happy reunion to come soon are full of all the love and sincerity of a true believer. Anyone who looks at her can see that she means every word she says, that bringing The Deputy into The Project – bringing her into the family, bringing her to Joseph and to John and to Jacob – is her heart’s desire. It’s such a good show that for the first time Jacob’s actually impressed by this latest Faith. There are days where he wonders if even _Joseph_ notices the nigh invisible tells – the faint tremor in her hands, the minute sharpness of her smile, the briefest flash of pure _hatred_ in her eyes whenever The Deputy’s ghost flits through the room. Jacob doesn’t blame her, honestly. The writing’s on the wall, and he can hardly fault Faith for seeing and fearing it.

He does let his Chosen know, however, that Faith is _not_ to be trusted where The Deputy is concerned.

Days pass as The Deputy cuts a bloody, burning swath through Henbane; days of Joseph’s vacillating serene patience and cold disapproval, days of John’s growing tension, of Faith’s steady fall into oblivion and faithful of all regions swarming Henbane like ants. Days of Jacob waiting for the next shoe to drop.

Then, just as the tension across Hope County feels like it’s about to break and tear everything to pieces, it happens.

Faith’s voice comes over the radio – triumphant and relieved and devastated.

The Hope County Jail has fallen.

The “Cougars” have been killed, taken, or scattered.

Faith has The Deputy.

Jacob’s heading for a helicopter before Joseph even asks, anticipating the summons with a cold, heavy heart. He arrives at the compound amidst a flurry of activity, just shy of celebration over the victory in Henbane, and makes his way to his brothers’ waiting embrace, makes his way to wait for Faith and - The Deputy.

They wait.

And wait.

And wait.

They wait until Joe and Johnny’s joyous anticipation starts turning cold, until their smiles have fallen and their hands tremble in Jacob’s. They wait until the compound has fallen into a painful silence, as though any sound will cover a radio transmission that isn’t coming.

They wait until finally, as cultist comes up to them – gray faced and trembling – to tell them that Henbane’s gone silent, that they can’t establish contact with Sister Faith’s bunker… they hear it. A deep, rolling series of sounds like distant thunder and cracking earth. Joseph goes still and John looks confused and Jacob… Jacob makes for the nearest vantage point to get a look across the river.

There’s a cloud rising up from Henbane – the green and sickly plumes of Bliss tainted with black gouts of smoke. 

Confirmation comes within minutes.

The Henbane bunker is _gone_.

There’s no sign of Sister Faith.

There’s no sign of The Deputy.

Alone in Joseph’s house, Jacob pulls his brothers close, holding them together as best as he can.

##############

It doesn’t take long to work out that they’ve truly lost Henbane. Between Faith’s disappearance, the destruction of her Gate, and the loss of their main source of Bliss they’ve been dealt a blow that they might not be able to fully come back from. Already there’s blood in the water – Resistance forces in Holland Valley and the Whitetails striking with more force and fury than ever before, practically falling over themselves to take advantage of the victory in Henbane. For once Jacob doesn’t need to press the issue, doesn’t need to waste time trying to convince Joseph that they need to focus on the here and now instead of the promised future. For once his brothers follow his advice the first time he gives it, recalling their search parties from Henbane to shore up the regions they still hold.

That cooperation doesn’t mean that The Deputy’s continued absence – her continued _rejection_ – isn’t tearing them apart.

Jacob starts to wonder, slowly, tentatively, with ever growing horror, whether his brothers are starting to be swayed by the arguments that he’d made all those weeks ago, back before John’s revelation about The Deputy. He starts to wonder what will win out in the end – the Words that sprawl (black for John and gray for Joseph and Jacob) across their right arms, or _The Project_.

Before, Jacob would have chosen The Project without a second thought.

Now, Jacob fears that that’s what Joseph _will_ chose.

More days pass, Jacob waits and watches and wonders, and then – shortly after one of their last outposts in Henbane falls – Jacob is summoned to the compound once again.

It’s silent, but for a low current of muffled sorrow – distant sobs and broken prayers whispered into the air, murmured condolences washing over him as he makes his way to where his brothers are waiting for him, quiet and ashen outside one of the outlaying buildings. Jacob steps in close to his brothers, takes the offered hand for Joseph’s sake, and together they enter the building.

There’s a body inside, on a table, laid out carefully and neatly, hands folded demurely over a spring of flowers someone’s placed on the chest. 

Whoever laid Faith out clearly did so with love, trying to give her some dignity and grace in death.

Given how her body’s bloated and her skin sloughing off from being in the water so long, the chunks of flesh long since taken away from her by wildlife, the filthy scraps of fabric that used to be her dress, and the arrow that’s still firmly lodged into her skull – point blank shot, directly between her where her eyes used to be – they might as well have saved themselves the effort.

Joseph’s moved away from them, walked over so that he’s standing by the lump of rotting meat that used to be Faith. Jacob can see the anger in him, lines of tension strung painfully tight in the muscles of his back and the vicious flexing in his fingers. He can see the sadness too, in the faintest slump of his shoulders and the slight hang of his head. He watches, side by side with John, as Joseph reaches down to pick up and cradle one bloated, rotting hand in his own, whispered prayers falling from his lips – down onto the dead girl and out or up or whatever to his Voice. After a second Joe replaces the hand, breathing ragged as he scrubs the back of his wrist underneath his eyes, gaze finally falling on the corpse’s face and –

Jacob watches as Joseph goes still, the anger slowly bleeding out of him as his eyes focus in and his hand reaches out to brush the broken end of the arrow. He stands there for a moment, eyes downcast and definitely looking at something other than the carcass in front of him.

Finally he pulls his hand away, sighing out an entire world of sorrow and tormented sympathy.

“She must be so afraid.”

And then Joseph turns away from the body, casting a look of pain and quiet determination towards his brothers, and walks out of the room.

John follows immediately, not sparing a second glance at the room or its contents. But Jacob… Jacob lingers a moment, suddenly and uncharacteristically sentimental, staring across the space towards the lump of meat that had – in theory – been a part of their family for several years.

Faith, or whatever her name had been before, had never been his sister. Hell, she’d barely been a person, much like most everyone who’s not one of his brothers. And yet…

Jacob shakes his head, breathing a sigh of atypical pity for the fallen girl who’d tried to be one with them.

_Sorry kid._

And then Jacob turns away and follows his brothers, closing the door behind him.

##############

Days pass, turn into a week, then two, and The Deputy doesn’t leave Henbane. In Holland Valley and the Whitetail Mountains, John and Jacob throw themselves into recovering from the loss, shoring up defenses and working out how to compensate. Without The Deputy around as the added push the Resistance always seems to need, they actually manage to regain some ground, take back a few outposts they’d lost and recoup some of their losses from the ranks of the sinners. 

It doesn’t stop Jacob from falling apart more and more each day.

The worst part isn’t the waiting – the thoughts of everything that could possibly go wrong, the anticipation that any moment they might be delivered a finger or an ear or an empty husk. It’s not the reports – news of outposts taken and shrines burnt, of faithful killed and the horrifying moments where she’s said to throw herself in front of Resistance members, sometimes too quickly for their attackers to stop themselves, the very real realization of just how fundamentally opposed she is to them and everything they are fighting for. It’s not even Miller, smiling and laughing at every turn, purring hate into Jacob’s ears and rending lines of invisible red over his skin, more present in the last few weeks than he’s been in the last years.

It’s the dreams.

He’s been having them ever since that day, since John broke the news and upended Jacob’s world. Every night he closes his eyes, and every night he relives all the thoughts and fantasies and dreams he’s had of her. 

Of what he’s wanted to do to her.

He dreams of her screams as his Judges eat her alive, of her neck snapping like sugar-glass under his hands, of her chest slowly crushing and caving under his boot, of those big green eyes going empty and dull as the light goes _out_. He dreams of himself putting a bullet into her head, watching the spray of blood and bone and brains painting the world behind her. He dreams of her pretty throat under his teeth, the plunge and the rush of blood flooding into his mouth, the feel of it as he sucks the screams from her, drinking them down, tearing off the meat and smiling as she flails and clings futilely to her fading life. He dreams of her strung up, slowly wasting away in the sun, burning and drying out like so much meat, unable to do anything but hang there and die as the elements and the animals eat away at her. He dreams of all that beauty and power and defiance being crushed, broken, ripped apart and _destroyed_ until there’s nothing left but a warning of what will happen to those who challenge The Project, who threaten Jacob’s brothers.

He dreams and he wakes with screams caught behind his clenched teeth and Miller’s cruel smiles and sneered truths and he’d do anything to make it all _stop._

The dreams don’t stop.

He dreams of her, bloodied and broken to his will, in one of his training courses, caught up in the reel of violence and death and the strains of _Only You_ , and he wakes up shaking.

He dreams of her strapped down to a table, shaking and struggling and sobbing helplessly as he steps close, knife in hand, and whittles away at her – first a toe, then a finger, now an ear, now a whole foot, cutting away bit by bit by bit until the blood and the pain finally finish her, leaving nothing but a misshapen lump of meat, and he wakes up with acid in his mouth and tears on his face.

He dreams of her, empty eyed and obedient, heavy leather collar cutting into her pretty throat, kneeling in the dirt and blood at his feet, the special little human Judge he’d wanted so desperately, mindless adoration and wild violence tied up in one pretty package, all _his_ , and he wakes up feeling sick and hard at the same time, Miller’s disgust crawling over him like a swarm of bugs.

He dreams of her and of him and of his brothers, her body broken and motionless beneath them, unable to do anything but stare with wild, horrified eyes as they reach down, tear her open, John’s hand holding the knife and Jacob’s pulling her open and Joseph’s reaching in to pluck out her still beating heart, Jacob’s brothers safe by his side as they cut out the cancer in their garden, cull the threat, remove the only real obstacle to their happiness, and he wakes up shaking and gasping and soaked with sweat and retching violently.

He dreams of…

He wakes up, throws himself out of bed, doesn’t make it to a wastebasket before he loses control, vomit spilling out over the floor and tears of horror and shame and disgust spilling down his face and his cock still hot and heavy between his legs, Miller standing over him, silent for once, before finally snarling, spitting, _“You diseased **fuck**.”_

The day that follows that dream isn’t a good one – the world around him too bright and loud when he finally emerges into it. He fights through his duties as long as he can, tries to hold himself together and do his damned job. Finally he can’t take it anymore, makes his way out and spends a little personal training time with Peaches. That helps, a little.

He dreams again that night.

##############

Henbane falls a few days after they find Faith’s body. After Joseph’s broadcast – the assurance of justice to their people, the promise of vengeance to their enemies, and the bearing of his very heart and soul to thei- The Deputy.

The Deputy is smart.

She doesn’t leave Henbane.

##############

He’s deep within his own Gate when it happens, double checking inventory – of all things – when one of his people comes _sprinting_ through the halls, wide eyed with shock and horror and bearing the – almost literally – unbelievable news that the militia has actually _attacked_ St. Francis.

They’ve killed over a dozen of his men.

They’ve taken Peaches.

Jacob sees _red_.

He makes his way to the control room of his bunker, teeth bared and every muscle tense with Wrath as he crosses the threshold, his people already coordinating the hunt – relaying information and orders to a field commander – to capture the sinners and reclaim Jacob’s property. He plants himself over a map, eyes scanning the figures his people have worked out, visualizing the most likely paths the vermin will take and barking out the occasional correction when he sees something his Chosen don’t. One of his people has already worked out that a separate assault is a distraction, has rerouted the Chosen and Judges that had gone to deal with it, and between them and the team pursuing from St. Francis it shouldn’t be long before the little band of sinners – and Jacob’s wayward pet – find themselves surrounded.

For the first time in weeks Jacob feels like he’s in control, feels like himself, feels _alive_. He can already visualize the hunt’s end, the conquest and capture, the new batch of bodies brought to him to be made strong or made meat. He can already hear the screams, see the breaking and reforging, taste the blood in the air. He can see the last vestiges of resistance in Peaches _shatter_ , see the complete _surrender_ in his boy as that last little scrap of person that _wasn’t Jacob’s_ burns away along with any hope of escape.

It’s all so _fucking glorious._

This is, of course, the point where things start going wrong.

Jacob’s field commander is mid-word – reporting that they’ve confirmed the location of the sinners, that they’re closing in and will have the situation resolved within minutes – when the explosion hits, shattering through the silence like a cannonball through a sheet of glass. The last echoes of the explosion are just fading when the screams filter through, established cries of pain suddenly punctuated by the very distinctive screams of someone burning to death.

What follows is sheer pandemonium – more explosions and dying screams ringing out over the command center operative’s hushed demands for information, the field-commander’s strangled mix of attempted reports and orders, and the distant cries of the Chosen as they try to locate their attackers.

Shots ring out, blurring with the screams and the shouts and further explosions, and Jacob’s lips pull back in another snarl of blind _Wrath_ as his Chosen flounder, hunting fruitlessly for whoever’s killing them.

_Who the **hell** – _

There’s a sudden cry over the radio waves, the triumphant bay of a hound that’s caught sight of its prey, and he’s just pulling a handset up to his lips to demand that _this_ one be taken alive (he needs this, needs some _release_ , needs to feel something _break_ for him) when –

_“Cease fire you idiots, it’s The Deputy!”_

Jacob’s heart stops.

The control room’s gone completely silent, save for the sudden flurry of panicked swears and barked order coming over the radio.

_“I said hold your fire –”_

_“-n’t see where –”_

_“– are escaping! Sir, the sinners are –”_

_“– and Fitch are down, we need a medic –”_

_“ – headed West, I repeat, The Deputy is headed West!”_

_“Sir, the insurgents are escaping, do we pursue?”_

“Negative.” The snarl that tears its way out of his throat shocks him, the word falling out without his awareness and others following it that he can’t – doesn’t _want to_ – stop. “Leave the sinners to the second team. Retrieve The Deputy. Use Bliss arrows if _necessary_.” His hand is trembling, heart pounding and stomach roiling, but the words are perfectly steady. “If she’s _injured_ …” He lets the threat – the _promise_ – hang over the airwaves.

_“Understood sir. Pursuing now.”_

What follows is the longest, most harrowing hour of Jacob’s life. He’s been in battle, in war, been under the lash of a belt and the rain of boots and fists. He’s seen ~~brothers and sisters~~ soldiers die in the sand, felt the full brunt of another’s hatred, and watched the blows he couldn’t take fall on those he’s meant to protect. He’s gone through hells of his own, and seen the hells his brothers – his soulmates – have faced. But at least in all those times he was _there_. At least there was a _chance_ that he could _do something_ , _anything_ to influence the situation. Now though? Now all Jacob can do is stand, and listen, and try not to fall to pieces before his soldiers as the Chosen hunt his – _“Is she really though, Jake?”_ ( _No. No, not his. Never his_ ) – hunt The Deputy across the Whitetail Mountains. All he can do is grit his teeth and clench his fists and try not to let himself tremble, pulse thundering in his ears as hushed reports and orders and directions spill out over the radio. All he can do is listen, growing more and more anxious. More and more… _confused_ , because…

Because he can’t figure out how this has happened.

Her presence in the Whitetails he can understand. Peaches – Pratt – may just be a co-worker but he’s put together enough information to work out that The Deputy does _not_ leave people behind. Jacob doesn’t doubt for a second that she threw herself into the rescue mission the moment she heard of it, not caring for a second that it would take her out of the safety of Henbane.

It’s how she got into the current situation, how she was even _spotted_ by the Chosen that he can’t get.

It just doesn’t make _sense_. There’s not enough Bliss in his territory to hinder her, and without that impediment she’s gotten too _good_ at avoiding their people, at not getting seen and giving hunting parties the slip to just stumble like this – like a complete amateur. And his Chosen are good – _damned good, damned well better be_ – but there’s no reason she shouldn’t have been able to slip past them before they got too close to her. Not to mention that this sort of attack – hitting loud and obvious _before_ some whim of fate lost her the element of surprise – just isn’t her style; it’s too clumsy and straightforward and –

And…

And that’s when Jacob realizes what she’s doing – the realization knocking him off balance with how obvious it is.

She didn’t make a mistake.

She’s not trying to _fight_ the Chosen.

She’s the _bait_.

She’s doing what she’s done ever since the Reaping began, acting out the same model of behavior that’s been reported time and time again, that’s only _grown_ in intensity since they learned who she really was. She’s making herself an irresistible target, putting herself at _risk_ in order to lead his Chosen away from the others, to give the Whitetails and Pratt a window to get out of his territory and into the Resistance controlled Henbane. Because she’s proved time and again that, whether it’s a case of rescuing captured Resistance members or civilians or literally throwing herself into the line of fire for her fellow combatants, she has a _distressing_ disregard for her own safety and wellbeing if there’s even a _chance_ she can save someone else.

She’s throwing herself into the line of fire _again_.

She’s giving herself up to save _them_.

_No, **don’t**. Don’t do this. They’re not **worth** it._

Jacob’s blood is ice in his veins, the realization of just how little regard his – _no_ – The Deputy has for herself cutting into him with the awareness of _why_ that regard is so slight. She’s putting the lives of others – of pathetic, _weak_ sinners – before her own because they… because _he_ …

_“Command, I have The Deputy.”_

His head snaps up, eyes snap open – when had he closed them? – as the words reverberate through the room. His heart is up in his throat, beating wildly in a mix of horror and joy and regret and anticipation and –

_“Requesting immediate MEDEVAC, equipped for a Bliss overdose.”_

_What?_

The bitter tinged joy turns to ash in his mouth as the request sinks in, as a frantic operative starts rattling off orders for the extraction not three feet from him. Unbidden Jacob’s mind flashes through a series of images – the early test subjects, the weak, the _fucking angels_. Those people who were _ruined_ by overexposure to the Bliss.

_No._

_No, not **her**. **Please** , not her. Not like this._

"-ere. Sir?"

His head snaps around, eyes landing and then focusing on the woman next to him. To her credit, the Chosen barely flinches under his gaze, just takes a second before speaking again. “Do you want us to reroute the MEDEVAC to another location, Sir? Or shall they continue to bring her here?”

_They’re… right. I should… Joe will…_

Jacob nods, once, sharply. “Continue as directed, and have Doctor Clemmons standing by.” He starts to turn. Pauses. Swallows down a growing lump in his throat as subtly as he can manage. “Alert me the moment they arrive.”

He doesn’t bother waiting for the response.

Jacob makes his way through the bunker mechanically, barely seeing anything around him, not stopping or slowing once until he’s reached his preferred training center – “Ugh, ‘training center,’ please. It’s a _gym_ , Jacob; and you call _me_ pretentious,” he can rather hysterically hear John snarking in the back of his mind – tucked away from the major areas of the Gate. It’s smaller, reserved for Jacob himself and a select number of high ranked members of the Project that he’s deemed worthy. Right now it’s empty, which is _precisely_ what he wants.

He doesn’t actually feel the first blow against the heavy bag.

_“Aaaww, what’s the matter Jake? Feeling stressed?”_

He grits his teeth, doesn’t feel the second or third.

_“Don’t know **why** you would be, really. I mean… this can only be **good** for you.”_

Swallows hard, doesn’t feel the seventh, eighth, ninth.

_“After all…”_

Fifteenth, sixteeth, seventeeth –

_“Little Angel being a sweet, brain-damaged zombie is probably the only way you’ll ever get her to touch you without having to **take** it.”_

His fist _slams_ against the bag, and distantly he feels of gout of heat. He grabs onto that blaze, holds it close, and – red swimming before his eyes – he hits again and again and again and again and again and again and –

“Sir?”

Jacob’s fists slams into the bag once, twice, three four more times. Then, body shaking and breath catching in his throat, he pulls away and, without a word, follows the gray-faced man.

His knuckles are split open, dripping blood across the floor as they make the trek to the infirmary, and one of his fingers looks _wrong_.

He doesn’t feel anything.

The infirmary is as empty but for two figures – a tall, deceptively unimposing Chosen that Jacob’s somewhat aware of, and the very familiar form of Doctor Clemmons – that are clearly waiting for him. Both of his subordinates snap to attention the moment he steps through the door, Jacob sparing a respectful nod to his lead physician out of habit before turning to the soldier.

“Sir,” the man – Hill, came to the Project young back in the early days, loyal and capable and not in the least unintelligent– doesn’t need to be prompted. Moreover, he’s clearly aware of how thin a thread his life is currently hanging by, if the gray cast to his skin and the world of all-consuming shame living in his eyes is any indication. “The first arrow was mine. I… don’t know who fired the second.” His eyes meet Jacob’s, and the eldest Seed can see the intent before the words are spoken. “I am prepared to accept the consequences of my actions.”

All it will take is a single nod. Just the slightest gesture, and the man before him will end his own life – put a bullet in his mouth, slit his throat with his own knife, walk over to the nearest wall and bash his brains out. All it will take is a word, and he’ll kneel at Jacob’s feet, let his commander put his hands around his throat and squeeze or snap, drive his fingers up through his eyes and into his brain, crush his skull under a boot. All it will take is a single gesture, and the man will go out and throw himself to the Judges, scream and writhe and let the wolves tear him to pieces, eat him alive until the pain or the blood loss ends it all. He’ll do any of it, would do all of it, because he followed orders, because he obeyed, and because in doing so he hurt something that was The Father’s, was Brother John’s, was Ja-

It doesn’t matter that he was following orders. It doesn’t matter that the blame truly rests on someone else. All that matters is that he _sinned_ , and he is ready to take responsibility and atone.

Jacob looks at the man, and he knows what loyalty looks like.

Jacob looks the man dead in the eyes.

“Find the one who fired the second shot.”

Hill stares at him for a split-second, a look of confused shock in his eyes. Then, before a moment’s even passed, he snaps back to attention, salutes, and walks out of the infirmary – _Reborn_ and with _Purpose_ in his eyes.

Jacob swallows down the urge to call him back, reminds himself that _soon_ he’ll have someone _deserving_ to deal with, and turns to the doctor.

Much like the Chosen, Clemmons doesn’t need to be prompted. Nor does she need any input from Jacob – she simply leads him through the infirmary, towards a private room to the back, giving him a succinct, comprehensive rundown on the medical situation. Jacob listens with half an ear, the details washing over him, filtering down to be stored in his subconscious, things to be analyzed and filed and dealt with later. Severe malnutrition and exhaustion. Several wounds – two bullet wounds on the bicep, within the last few weeks; a badly dislocated shoulder, within the last few hours – to the right arm, shoddily treated and given insufficient time to heal. Similar damage to the left knee, several weeks old. Numerous bullet grazes. Numerous cuts and lacerations from shrapnel and animal attacks, as well as burns of varied severity, ranging from months to hours old. Two arrow wounds in the right leg, sustained during the chase; one to the thigh that _would_ have been relatively minor, had she not pulled the arrow out, stuffed the wound with gauze, _taped it_ together, and then run several miles on it; the other significantly deeper and closer to the femoral artery, the wound exacerbated by a fall down a steep incline. Signs of potential head trauma, severity uncertain due to Bliss levels.

Bliss levels. Dangerously high. Detox procedures applied. Recovery time… uncertain.

Recovery uncertain.

Jacob listens to the report, walking towards the back room at Clemmons’ side, blood cold and breath suffocating and mouth full of copper and acid.

They reach the door. Jacob nods once and Clemmons walks away. He puts a hand on the knob and freezes. Stands there, paralyzed. Tries to breathe. Can’t. Then, finally, his body moves without him, turns the knob, pushes the door open and –

And there she is.

Jacob moves slowly, mechanically, drawn forward like he’s on strings until he’s standing at the side of the hospital bed, looking down at where she’s laying, unconscious and unmoving – positioned carefully like a doll in its box.

She’s changed, quite a bit from the last time – the first time, the _only_ time – he’d seen her, all those weeks ago in Joseph’s church. All the traces of youthful softness are gone – cut and hollowed into sharp angles and lean, desperate, rock hard muscle by starvation rations and constant exertion and danger. She wears other signs of the war too – a new host of cuts and bruises and scars decorating almost every inch of exposed skin, bandages applied on her right arm and left knee and swathed around the bare skin of her right thigh, dark circles of exhaustion painted under her eyes, knuckles split and lips raw and chapped, and skin roughed by the elements ( _“Ouch, poor kid. Looks almost like she’s been in a war or something, doesn’t she, Jake?”_ ). That youthful softness, that… _“weakness”_ that he’d sneered at is gone, and in its place are the harsh signs of experience. She’s still beautiful – _still so damn beautiful, so damn pre- **no**_ – but it’s different from before; the beauty of a naked blade rather than that of the innocent.

It’s exactly what he’d wanted from the first moment he’d set eyes on her.

He’d do anything to get that soft innocence back.

_“Looks like you got your ‘special little **wolf bitch** after all, huh Jake?”_

Without realizing it he’s lowered himself down gently, is sitting in a chair next to the bed. Up close he can smell her, dirt and blood and sweat, gunpowder and smoke and accelerant-rate moonshine, a faint hint of dog and… and… and flowers.

She smells like flowers.

Like wildflowers and herbs and mountain air.

Her hair is escaping its tight braid, scattered over her pillow. The thick mane of blazing red still streaked and caked with dirt – even after the impromptu swim – meant to dull its signal-flare brightness, to tone down its visibility and help her disappear; and he mentally applauds the pragmatism of that choice even as he mourns at its necessity. Without meaning to – when did he lose so much control over himself? – his hand reaches out, pushes a lock of hair away from her face.

Her skin’s too warm. Clammy, from sweating out the Bliss. From a too worn-down body that’s desperately grasping at a moment’s respite to try and heal itself a little.

His fingers are running over her skin, stroking a hollow cheek and tracing down to her jaw. He freezes for a moment when she shifts in her sleep, her eyebrows furrowing for a second and her lips parting. Then, just as he’s about to pull back, she sighs. Relaxes. The tension bleeding out of her body as she unconsciously leans into his touch.

Jacob stares, unable to fully comprehend what’s happening, unable to stop his hand from moving again, the back of his knuckles running gently up her skin, caressing her cheek lightly and –

Her eyes are open – brilliant green peeking out behind the white haze of Bliss.

They’re staring at each other, an eternity of contact packed into what can only be a few seconds. Then, without meaning to, Jacob strokes the back of his fingers against her skin again, a little twitch that pulls a little sigh of pure euphoria, a _moan_ of simple delight from her throat.

It’s the first sound he’s ever heard her make. The first time he’s ever heard her voice – she’d always been careful, so very careful to never let them hear her, he should have _suspected_ something – and against all odds it’s because he’s done something _right_ by her. Because he’s offered her some little comfort, the slightest bit of tenderness, and the sheer _joy_ in that little vocalization sweeps over him, runs over his skin like rays of sunshine and seeps down, warming him through to the core, soothing away _years_ of pain and guilt and shame and –

Jacob recoils, jerks his hand away from her – _he can’t touch her, he’ll **hurt** her _ – as fire and shame _burns_ in his skin – _no right, he has **no right** to touch her_ – and sinking down and lancing through him even as every fiber of his being _screams_ for him to stop, to touch her again, to take her in his arms and make everything better, to do the right thing for _once_ before –

Her eyes snap wide, fear and pain and shame cutting through the Bliss, and when she gasps he can _feel_ everything – the shadow of Words cutting into his skin, _I’m sorry, please, I didn’t mean to, what did I do wrong, what did I **do** …_

They’re staring again, both silent and stricken, both shaking.

He’s hurt her.

 _Again_.

She’s outright trembling now, staring up at him, Bliss-hazy green eyes full of tears and pain and heartbreak, because Jacob can’t stop _hurting_ his –

He has to tell her. Tell her _everything_. Tell her how sorry his is, how he wants to fix it, make it all better. How he wants to take away all the pain that he – that _they_ – have caused her. Has to tell her that it’s not her fault, _none_ of it is her fault, it’s _him_ , it’s _always_ been _him_ , been Jacob who’s to blame. He has to tell her how he’s spent every day since her birth wishing he could be better, knowing that she _deserves_ better. He has to tell her how perfect she is, how brave and strong and beautiful, how _precious_ she is. How he’s spent the past twenty-two years regretting and wishing and striving to be _better_ , how he’s never dared to hope that he’ll succeed but how he’s tried to be what his brothers – what his _soulmates_ – need him to be, what they deserve, and that _she’s_ the reason why, the spark that reignited his will to fucking _try_. He has to tell her how much he loves her. How much he’s loved her, in shame and guilt and heartbreak, for twenty-two years.

Jacob opens his mouth.

 _ **“You know,”**_ he says, _Words_ falling out that he can’t stop, _**“if it were up to me, you would have been dead a long time ago.”**_

And then his throat closes.

His tongue goes dead.

The Words stop.

Just when he doesn’t _want_ them to.

Jacob has so much more to say to her – _I was wrong. I was so stupid. Forgive me, please forgive me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve any of this. I didn’t want this for you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Sunshine, please, please forgive me. I know I don’t deserve it, I don’t deserve you, God you don’t deserve any of this, I’m so, so sorry_ – but it won’t come _out_.

It _has_ to. He _needs_ to. He has to tell her that –

The Words are tangling in his mouth, strangling the inside of his throat, and as he tries to force them out he watches as the Words he _did_ speak hit her. He watches as those big green eyes go wide, as her mouth barely parts in a tiny gasp and a tremor runs over her like –

Like –

Jacob remembers an incident, some months earlier. A militiaman they’d captured, tested, found too _weak_ to be of any use but as _meat_. He’d been overexposed to the Bliss – a mistake that one of Jacob’s Chosen had paid for – almost to the point of becoming an Angel. Jacob can still remember the man’s reaction when the Judges had torn into him – the distant look on his face as he’d watched the wolves open him up, feasting on the intestines that were spilling out of his slit-open stomach, knowing that he _was_ feeling impossible agony but not actually able to _experience_ it, not able to _react_ to it.

Jacob watches his Words wash over The Deputy – his greatest failure, his greatest sin, his soulmate – and he sees that exact look cross her face.

He knows it’s too late. Knows he can’t fix what he’s done. Knows there’s no way he can ever make any of it right.

But he has to _try_.

Jacob’s lips part again, the Words forming on his tongue, cutting it open and flooding his mouth with blood and shame and remorse and –

She laughs.

The sound – small, raw, hurting and _broken_ – lilts out into the air, stopping his heart and turning his desperate Words to ash on his tongue.

She looks up at him through the laughter and she _smiles_ , like sunshine and broken promises and all the heartbreak that’s ever been, helpless and hopeless, tears slowly falling from her big green eyes as she looks up at him, smiling and laughing and crying and –

_**“But I’m so damn pretty.”** _

The Words hit Jacob like a bullet – cold and numb and burning him alive from the inside out, pain so blinding that it ceases to be pain and just becomes _emptiness_.

Jacob can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything but feel the cold fire of her Words on his skin and stare into the tear filled eyes of his soulmate, the heartbreak of a child and the hopelessness of a martyr flaying his skin from his bones and cutting down into his soul, all his sins and failures brought to life in the eyes of this beautiful, tortured woman.

He wants to take it back. Wants to tear the horrible, cruel, misspoken Words off her skin and put new ones – kinder Words, better Words, Words befitting her – in their place. He wants to scream and cry and break down like a child, wants to throw himself at her feet – into her arms – and beg for a second chance, to find _some way_ to _fix_ things, to start to make up for what he’s done to her – to his sacrificial lamb, his blameless ray of sunshine, his _soulmate_ , his –

Robin.

Her name is Robin.

Her name is Robin, and he’s been hurting her for her entire life.

_I’m so sorry, Robin._

He wants to –

_Please forgive me._

No.

_I’d set you free if I could._

He can’t.

_But they –_

It doesn’t matter what he wants.

_They’ll make it better._

There’s no way he can fix what he’s broken.

_You’ll see, Sunshine._

There’s nothing he can do.

_We’ll all be…_

Nothing except stare into the eyes of his greatest, least deserving victim, surrounded by her pain and Miller’s laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Hallucinations/Hauntings, PTSD, Self-Hatred, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Sadism, Unhealthy Relationships, Off-screen Torture, Off-screen Brainwashing, Violent Thoughts/Fantasies, Implications of Sexual Abuse/Violence, Allusion to/Implications of Rape, General Violence, Self-Harm, and Guilt. So much guilt.
> 
>  _*belting*_ **But all he said waaaas - "I know how to f*** things up!"** *dramatic music*  
>  _Ah niche theater jokes - how I deal with heartbreak and trauma and the horrors that I write. :)_
> 
> _In which Jacob Seed is - on all levels except physical - a wolf with a bone, his inability to properly express his thoughts and feelings/talk like a normal and well-adjusted human being has serious consequences, and no one's having a good day - least of all Robin._
> 
> _Or, on a more serious note... in which we remember that Jacob Seed is not a good person._
> 
> _Well y'all, we're right up on the finish line. Thank you **so much** for coming along on the journey, and I'll see you next week for the finale! \^.^/_
> 
> _Title comes from "Dear Rabbit" by Young Heretics. Because Jacob._
> 
>  
> 
> ( _Sidebar thanks to some of the comments from last chapter - *coughcough HAL4343 and HuepfKaese coughcough* - and my own general insanity: Perhaps, if you've ever stepped near the POI franchise/fandom, you've heard of one John Reese - the Violent Amoral Unicorn of Justice? Well may I present... Robin Baird - the Wrathful Self-Destructive Unicorn of Revolution. Tremble mortals, tremble._ ) 
> 
> ( _I regret nothing!_ )


	16. Welcome to My Cage, Little Lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Let's do this._

The world drifts by in a sea of mist and stars – distant echoes and brushes of contact reaching out and never reaching her.

She’s cold, then warm, then cold again. Something warm touches her and she yearns for it, seeks it out, tries to catch it. It pulls away and she’s cold again.

She’s moving, lifted and carried through the air like a dandelion seed on a gust of wind, weightless and adrift.

Someone reaches for her, warm hands and voices made of light that dance just out of her reach – _always out of reach_ – as she’s brought out of the air and the cold and laid upon a warm cloud.

She wants to…

She needs…

She…

##############

_Be careful what you wish for, Old Man._

##############

Robin’s eyes flicker open.

She’s laying, soft and snuggled up, on the softest bed she’s been in since the world went to hell. She can’t move, her body numb and weighted like a sack of lead. So she just… lays there. Stares upwards to a ceiling that’s dancing with wisps of cloud and flickering stars.

She stares and stares and stares, and then her eyes close again.

##############

_What did I do?_

##############

The water laps against her, cold and sharp like needles, sinking through her skin and into her blood, curling around and into the fog that’s settled in her mind and behind her eyes, that’s flooding her mouth and filling her throat.

None of that matters.

_Nothing_ matters.

Only _him_.

Only her angel.

Only her _soulmate_.

He stands before her, his hands soft and gentle and warm on her shoulders, holding her up and pulling her close.

_“Despite all that you have done, you are not beyond salvation.”_

His eyes – soft and gentle and deeper than the oceans – stare through her, down into her soul.

_“You’re not here by accident or by chance.”_

He’s so beautiful.

_“You are here by the grace of God.”_

He’s _hers_.

_“You’ve been given a gift.”_

But

          she’s not his.

There’s tears in her eyes, blood and ash on her tongue, an invisible hand in her throat and another on her heart as she stares at the embodiment of everything she’s ever wanted and everything she can’t have.

She wants to _speak_ to him. Wants him to look and _see_ , see _her_. Wants to be pulled into that warmth and that light. She wants to give in, stop fighting for _once_. She wants everything he’s promising, everything that everyone’s said this is _supposed_ to be. She wants…

_No_

She wants to be loved.

_I **can’t**_

He’s waiting. Staring at her. Eyes soft and sad and patient.

_Not like this_

She’s crying – crying for the girl she’d been and the woman she’s become, crying for the people her soulmates have hurt and the people she’s hurt trying to stop them, crying for every moment of realizing that she doesn’t get to have what everyone else does because

_I’m broken_

that’s not how the story plays out for her. Because her story doesn’t come with the promised happily-ever-after. Because the people who are supposed to love her, supposed to create that fairy-tale ending with her are

_And so are you_

monsters.

_And broken pieces don’t fit together right_

He stares at her, eyes soft and sad. She cries, tears falling into the river and getting swept away.

And then he turns.

He walks away.

Her soulmate turns his back on her and leaves her behind, and Robin’s heart breaks again.

_They just break each other more_

The waters rise around her.

The world goes dark.

##############

_No one is coming to save you._

##############

Consciousness hits Robin like a bucket of ice cold water, slapping her in the face and snapping her eyes open, drawing a painfully sharp surge of breath that chokes up inside her chest, leaves her fingers clawing into impossibly fine sheets as her body goes taunt, her heart thundering and mind racing as –

_Fuck!_

Her eyes cast wildly around the room, taking in its emptiness blindly as she tries to struggle upright through the numbness and clumsiness and distant echoes of pain. She manages to get her left arm under her, bracing and shoving up, then nearly collapses right back down when she tries the same with her right arm and her vision goes white for a moment of agony. She doesn’t let herself fall. She grits her teeth, hisses a swear between them, lets her throbbing arm lie limp in her lap as the other shoves her upright again, tries to propel herself backwards, get the wall against her back for some added stability. She makes it a few inches when there’s a sound – a sharp, metallic clack – from down the bed, and she blinks through the pain and tears to find the source and –

There’s a shackle around her left ankle.

Robin stares at it for a second, mouth slack and eyes wide with confused disbelief.

_No._

The second passes, and _panic_ hits her like a freight train. Robin yanks her leg up to her torso, the sharp clack of the chain – _fuck_ – attaching the steel ring around her leg to – presumably – the bed frame making her flinch and whimper under her breath. Her fingers shake as she runs them over the shackle, desperately searching for a way of getting it off. It doesn’t look good. The metal is smooth, shiny and new – quite sickeningly, it’s actually rather pretty, looking more like a piece of vaguely fetishistic jewelry than an tool of imprisonment (of _possession_ ) – and without any obvious weak points, the only blemish being a little keyhole that – at present – she’s pretty damn sure she won’t be able to pick with her force of will and nothing else. It’s fitted to her, too; what feels like padded silk keeping it from rubbing or cutting into her leg, but too close against her skin for her to be able to slip or force it off. The point where it’s connected to the chain is solid too, and the chain itself – deceptively delicate – feels like it could hold a truck aloft without much difficulty.

_No no nonononono, please, please no..._

She forces her body to move again, scrabbling down the length of the chain and half-sliding half-falling off the bed and onto the hardwood floor, terror muting the shock and aftershocks of raw pain as she moves. Sure enough the other end of the chain is attached – just as solidly – around one of the heavy hardwood legs of the bed frame, itself bolted into the floor. There’s no way she’s getting it off without a key. She tugs at it anyway, breath coming in short, panicky gasps as she tries to will the chain to break, to come off from the bed frame, to just _fucking disappear._

Nothing changes.

Finally she gives in, lets the chain fall from her fingers and lets her head fall against the side of the mattress, vision swimming and lungs screaming as she pants and fights down a surge of hysterical tears.

_Fuck._

A few seconds pass and she starts to get her breathing under control, gets her vision to stop spinning and forces herself to actually _look_ around the room, to take stock of her surroundings.

She’s in a room. That much she’d, admittedly, already gathered, but she does slowly manage to confirm that it’s completely unfamiliar. It’s also… nice. In an eerie, completely empty way. There’s no signs of death in the room – no dark stains or musty smells of blood – or any war wounds, like pretty much everywhere in Hope County’s got these days. It’s kind of fancy, actually, in a very sparse and understated way. She’s never been much for interior decorating, but even she can tell that the materials making up the room are top tier – real hardwood floors, solid walls with soothingly neutral paint, and a high vaulted ceiling. The furniture – what little there is – is top quality too. The bed – for all that its bolted to the floor and, she’s just now realizing, weirdly light on bedding – is probably the nicest one she’s ever even seen, and desperation had made her crash in _Addie’s_ bed that one time. There’s a little desk/table thing a bit of a way from her, underneath a shuttered window, that’s some kind of super rich looking dark wood. Complementing the table is a large bureau on the other side of the room, with an equally complementary – no matching here, that would be too fucking _gauche_ , wouldn’t it – chair by its side. Finishing the room off are two doorways, one across from her – with no actual door attached that she can see – that seems to lead to a sort of powder room, and another – definitely door attached – that she guesses leads out of her current…

_**Fuck.** _

Her cell.

Her very pretty, very luxurious, very sparse cell.

Robin swallows down another attempted surge of hysteria, grabs the – ridiculously soft – bed with her left hand and forces herself upright. It takes her three tries but she gets there, and as soon as she’s vertical and not swaying too much she starts limping across the room as quickly and quietly as possible.

She makes it _up to_ the window-desk – just close enough that her palm can rest against the closest part of its top – before the chain goes taunt and she can’t go any further.

She swears again, casting her eyes about the room, increasingly frantic. She’s not going to be able to reach the exit door, never mind the bureau or chair or powder room – not, quite frankly, that there’s liable to be anything at all _useful_ in any of those locations. Her eyes fall back to the desk again, and she swears, again. Even if her legs weren’t throbbing and quivering from just limping the few feet to get to it, the legs off the table are all bolted down to the floor – just like the bed – _and_ she’s pretty damn sure she wouldn’t be able to break any of them off even _if_ she weren’t on the verge of collapsing to the ground. Another quick glance confirms that the chair – which, again, she can’t even _reach_ – is of similar make, as well as looking too heavy to conceivably use as a weapon in its entirety.

Which means that she’s alone, chained to a heavy wooden bedframe, seriously injured, and without anything that she could possibly use to defend herself.

_Fuck._

Her legs are outright quaking now, like she’s trying to balance on bamboo stalks in the middle of a windstorm, and she just manages to limp her way back to the bed before they give out. Then, sitting barely upright on the bed, she goes back to taking stock of the situation. The room’s a bust, and she’s… she’s not doing great. Robin’s vision is swimming again – Bliss? Concussion? Blood loss? All of the above? – as she glances down at herself. There’s a swath of bandages around her right arm, leading all the way up to her shoulder, and the growing stab of pain that’s radiating throughout it seems to indicate that she did wreck it pretty badly during the chase. There’s a similar swath of bandages around her right thigh, where the Bliss arrows – _fucking **cheating**_ – hit her, the worn out denim of her appropriated jeans cut away up high so that the wounds could be treated. The other pant leg’s been cut off too, though only up above her bandaged and splinted knee, so she’s ended up with a weird board-shorts/daisy-dukes combo going on. And, on top of all of that, Robin feels quite literally like she’s been run through a ringer – ever muscle in her body is trembling with fatigue, a low level ache pulsing throughout her that speaks to probably unhealthy levels of Bliss in her system. Which…

_Which…_

_**Fuck.** _

Her mind goes skittering back, hazy, Blissed-up memories flashing before her eyes. She remembers the take-down, the second arrow hitting home and cutting off her last chance at escape. She remembers the Chosen that had knelt in front of her, vaguely remembers his growing panic as he’d assessed the situation. She remembers… remembers…

_No._

She remembers Jacob.

_Please… please no…_

She remembers their bond Resolving.

Acid floods up into her throat, claws against the back of her tongue, and her eyes start burning all over again. She’d… they’d…

_**No.** _

_“Two down, one to go,”_ something whispers and giggles in her ear, wisps of fog and butterfly kisses on her skin. _“And that third one’s something else **entirely**.”_

_“So much for not giving in, huh Robby?”_

_No, no I didn’t…_

_“The Rook of the Resistance, Hope’s last hope. Crumbling like wet cardboard the first chance she got.”_

_No, it’s not my –_

_“You wanted this.”_

_No…_

_“Happy little family of mass murderers.”_

She gags, gasps, fingers digging through her hair and clutching at her throbbing temples as she grits her teeth, squeezes her burning eyes shut as she tries to breathe, tries to block out the voices – “don’t listen to the Bliss, Rook” – that are hissing and giggling and crawling over her skin.

She has to tune it out, tune them out. Has to push past and _think_. She has to come up with _some_ kind of plan, fast, because if she can’t then –

The door opens, her head and eyes snapping up at the sound and the movement and –

Her eyes lock with Joseph Seed’s.

_“And Father makes three. Right on cue.”_

They stare at each other – Robin frozen with fear and horror, heart stopped and blood turned to ice; Joseph’s eyes wide with shocked surprise and so very blue without those yellow lenses, his mouth hanging open slightly, her clearly unexpected consciousness bringing him up short and robbing him of his usual air of otherworldly serenity. For a moment, the world stopped around them, shrunk down to only _be_ them, Joseph Seed looks… _human_.

Then his eyes sharpen, his lips turning upwards into a smile.

The moment passes.

The humanity falls away, and _The Father_ stands across the room from Robin.

He takes a step into the room, towards her, and instinctively she flinches back. The movement draws Joseph up short, a moment of shock and pain crossing his face in a flash – _like **he** has any right to be hurt_. The pain lingers for a moment before his smile returns, softer and sadder than before, his hands lifting slowly and gently into the air, like he’s trying to sooth a frightened animal.

“It’s alright,” he sighs, gently, mellow voice and honey-smooth accent lilting through the room, filling it like clouds of Bliss, coiling around the Words on her left hand and wrist and sending jolts of electricity through her skin. He takes another step towards her, hands still held up, “You don’t need to be afraid anymore. You’re safe now.”

Robin stares at him, trembling slightly from the aftershocks of hearing his voice again – up close and in person and only barely buoyed by the Bliss.

The Bliss.

She can still feel the Bliss, drifting about inside her like poisoned butterflies and burnt flower petals, and if it weren’t for the Bliss - helped along by the pain and the exhaustion and the disorientation - she’d probably laugh at him. At his words. At the very idea that – somehow – he actually thinks there’s any world in which being trapped in a room with _him_ could ever qualify as being _safe_.

As it is, though, all she can really do is watch as he approaches, slowly, steadily, inevitable as the grave, her mind racing as she tries to figure out what to do.

She wants to run. But there’s nowhere to go. Even if she was physically capable there’s the shackle and the chain, nothing but a few feet of movement potentially available to her. And, besides, a part of her mind screams, the last thing you do when faced with a predator is run, make yourself _prey_.

He moves closer and her mind races. Her right arm might as well be useless, and even without the chain her legs are both pretty much shot – strong and stable as wet noodles. That basically just leaves her with her left arm and her _teeth_. She could try to go for the throat… try to choke him, snap his neck, tear out his larynx, rip open his jugular. Could go for the eyes, which is – admittedly – appealingly ironic, given who she’s dealing with. Another involuntary flinch shakes her, sends the chain clinking lightly against the bed frame, and for a split second she entertains the idea of weaponizing it – of going full-on Princess Leia and trying to get it around Joseph’s neck, garroting him with something he’d intended to hobble her with. The idea is _deeply_ appealing, but she discounts it almost immediately anyway; the poetry of it would be nice, but the pragmatism is definitely lacking, not to mention that the logistics seem… implausible.

He’s almost at the bed and her mind is racing, trying to decide between the throat and the eyes and –

There’s another figure at the door.

Robin’s heart stops again as her eyes are pulled past Joseph and onto John Seed.

John’s gaping at her, clearly just as surprised as Joseph had been to see her awake, clearly just having followed after his big brother for some reason or another. He’s staring at her – wonder tinged with the distant hints of pain, of lingering resentment in his eyes. Robin’s eyes flicker from John, back to Joseph, her mind racing faster and faster as she tries desperately to figure out how in the hell to handle this –

Jacob appears in the doorway behind John.

Robin’s eyes track from one face to the next – one little, two little, three little Seeds brothers, all staring down at her – and she feels like the earth is falling out beneath her.

She’s…

She could handle John in a fight – hale or halved, provided she’s got a limb free to do so. It’s not hubris; just a deep certainty that – physically speaking – she’s more than a match for the youngest Seed. Even injured, she knows she could take him.

She knows just as clearly that she can’t do the same with Jacob. Not in a fair fight, not even at her best, and any fight that might break out now wouldn’t be fair by any stretch of the word.

Robin knows she could beat John in a fight. Robin knows she couldn’t beat Jacob. And Joseph…

Joseph isn’t like Jacob. He’s not a hunter, a Soldier, someone built to kill and break and destroy. He’s not even like John, filled with the frenzied power and innate cruelty that makes The Baptist a credible threat. Joseph isn’t like his brothers. Joseph…

Robin’s heart and her veins and her skin are cold as ice, as the grave. Joseph’s not like his brothers. Nothing they ever do or say or embody will ever make them as inhumanly terrifying as Joseph.

Robin’s pretty damn sure that she couldn’t beat Joseph in a fight either.

Joseph’s reached her. Is standing in front of her, close enough that either one of them could just reach out and touch the other. He doesn’t reach. Neither does she. They just… stay. Staring at each other – Robin frozen as a statue and Joseph’s eyes soft and sad, patient and inviting. Waiting.

They stare and stare and stare and it suddenly hits her that he’s waiting.

Waiting for her to _speak_.

The realization washes over her, sinks through her skin and down into her heart, and she’s not sure whether she’s going laugh or cry or finally lose it and be sick.

Some part of what she’s feeling must be showing, because Joseph’s face does something complicated in the general vicinity of his eyes and eyebrows, the contortion accompanied by a brief tension in his lips. It only last a second – flickers by so fast that she’s not entirely sure she actually saw it – before his face smoothes out again. His lips lift, ever so slightly, into a disgustingly sympathetic little smile and –

Joseph moves, takes the final step and lowers himself down onto the bed by her side, and it takes every last bit of control she has to not _scream_ and recoil from him, to flail and claw and tear at him and herself and everything surrounding them like the trapped, injured animal she feels like.

The only solace she has in the whole situation is that _Jacob_ is as visibly unhappy with the new development as she feels.

Of course, that solace is immediately crushed into tiny pieces as Jacob responds by moving into the room himself, heading slowly but deliberately their way, John trailing at his heels like an overexcited puppy. It only takes a few seconds before they’re surrounding her, Joseph seated inches away from her, Jacob about a foot away on the other side of her, John settled neatly between them, Seeds on all three sides of her and a wall at her back.

What a thing, when reality’s so much worse than the nightmares.

“I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now,” Joseph breaks the silence with – quite possibly – the first truthful thing she’s ever heard him say. “What you must be thinking. What… stories and lies you must have been told about us. It must all be so overwhelming.” He breathes a soft, sad little laugh, shaking his head for a moment before meeting her eyes once more. “I don’t blame you for being afraid.” It’s so magnanimous, The Father’s benediction. She’s so touched she thinks she might throw up. “But now,” he glides over her disbelieving catch of breath, still smiling at her like mercy and peace itself, “all that’s over. Now we can show you the _truth_ , free you from all of their hate and lies and _sins_ , and together…” he starts moving, slowly, on hand lifting and reaching towards her, only to freeze in midair when she flinches back from it. Joseph’s eyes go even sadder, but the smile doesn’t fade. After a second his hand eases back down, resting lightly on the bed between them now, and patient, forgiving warmth in his smile ratchets up so high it makes her head swim a little, his voice going gospel true, thrumming with so much hope and promise and _certainty_ as he stares into her burning eyes. “Together we will know the eternal peace and paradise of Eden.” His voice catches, a swell of joy building up inside him so powerful that it seems to catch even him off guard. Startled, a little abashed, Joseph laughs – the sound soft and shivery and overwhelmingly elated as it sinks in and claws her skin open. Robin shudders – the involuntary action drawing the full force of Joseph’s gaze back to her, crashing down and pinning her like a falcon on a rabbit, her throat closing tight around a caught breath as he stares into her with those perfect, agonizing, impossibly blue eyes. “We will be together in Eden,” he breathes the words as a prayer, staring at her like she’s the fulfillment of every prayer that came before, and it’s only down to his paralyzing gaze that Robin doesn’t _scream_. “As we were always meant to be.”

And with a sigh of pure joy and relief and _satisfaction_ , Joseph Seed looks at her and _smiles_.

Waiting.

Robin stares at Joseph, his words turning over and over and over in her mind, not fully able to work her way through the gall, the sheer _audacity_ of him trying to act like she’d need _other people_ to tell her what to think about Joseph and his fucked up little family. Like she hasn’t _personally_ seen their handiwork all over Hope County. Like she hasn’t been up to her neck in it, fighting to stop it, tearing herself apart to clean up after it, wading through the aftermath day after day after _day_. Like the so-called paradise that Joseph expects her to join them in wouldn’t be born and baptized in the blood of innocents, like it wouldn’t be pried from the cold dead fingers of the people Robin _actually_ loves. Like they haven’t tortured and maimed and stolen and murdered, spreading their hate and cruelty and pain across the county like poison. Like they haven’t threatened _her_ with death and torture and ruination on a regular basis, and done it _personally_. Like Joseph didn’t leave her again and again, leave her to suffer, leave her to _die_. Like John hadn’t _tortured_ her, been on the _verge_ of torturing her _again_ , hungry for her agony and helplessness, when he stumbled over his Words. Like she hasn’t had Jacob _Fucking_ Seed’s death threat _literally_ stamped across the back of her neck like a dotted line – _cut here_ – for sixteen years. Like they haven’t been hurting, and torturing, and slowly _killing_ her every day of her _entire **life**_.

The Seeds have taken _everything_ from her.

And here’s Joseph – sitting calmly by her side, looking at her with love and _understanding_ , so magnanimously willing to _forgive_. Here’s Joseph – patiently waiting, expectant, acting like _she’s_ the one who’s lost, misguided, in need of _his_ benevolence. Here’s Joseph – sitting there, peaceful and serene in the middle of the Hell on Earth he’d directed and dictated and shaped with his words and his will, holding her _prisoner_ , holding an entire _lifetime_ of her hurt in his hands and demanding _one. More. Thing._

Because he hasn’t taken enough from her.

Because he hasn’t taken enough _of_ her.

Because he really believes that it all already belongs to him.

She can feel her whole body trembling, eyes burning with _rage_ and her jaw clenching so hard it hurts, a sharp tang of new blood where the side of her tongue was underneath her teeth, and it suddenly hits her that _here_ , _now_ , **_this_** is where she can win, can claim a victory for all time, can keep some little part of herself _forever_. She can deny Joseph what he so desperately wants, so _easily_. All it will take is a second, just a second to part her teeth and bring them down again, to spit her newly severed tongue out into his face and _ta-fucking-da!_ No Resolution for Joseph Seed, not now and not _ever_. Just a life of ashy gray Words, waiting for a voice that will never speak, waiting for writing or signing that she’ll never give, _never_ , she swears, she’ll cut her own fucking hands off too before she –

_No._

She feels a muscle in her jaw twitch from the pressure, swears she can hear her teeth grinding, and she forces a slow breath to pass through her, eyes still firmly locked with Joseph’s.

No.

She is _not_ going to mutilate herself.

Not for _him_.

She is going to get the fuck _out_ , away from _them_ , and when she’s walking free and safe again she’s damned well going to be _whole_ for it.

And so Robin breathes, and she stares, and she doesn’t say a single Word.

She stares and keeps her silence, and slowly the tension in the room starts to build, some of the indulgent warmth bleeding out into a sickly cold.

She can see John in the corner of her eye, starting to tense, fidgeting, his weight shifting from foot to foot, his hands flexing and clenching in a way that makes her want to throw herself backwards and straight through the wall to get away.

She can _feel_ Jacob, like spiders crawling along her neck, like an invisible weight pressing down on her shoulders, the fucking _apex predator_ at her back.

And she can see Joseph, a deep, hungry darkness playing at the edges of his gaze, his smile going rigid and his muscles coiling like a snake, his serenity going slowly brittle in the face of her continued silence and _denial_.

_Well, it looks like The Father doesn’t like not getting his way._

She feels her eyes narrow.

_How **fucking** tragic._

She sees Joseph’s gaze sharpen.

_You best get used to that._

The air goes cold.

_I have._

The whole room is filled with the cold, deathly silence that falls over a lulled battlefield – both sides low and coiled to strike, listening for the enemy and desperate to not give themselves away, tense, ready, hungry for the kill, waiting for the enemy to slip up, to make a mistake, to show any sign of – _weakness_ – vulnerability and let the attack begin all over again, to unleash the fire and the blood and the _**rage**_.

She can feel it grow in Joseph’s fading peace, feel it grow in John’s trembling tension, feel it grow in Jacob’s looming threat, feel it grow in her mind and her heart and her soul, the swell of _hurt hunger rage hurt fear **hate**_ that’s –

Joseph sighs, the sound – tired and understanding and sad and… and _amused_ – shattering the growing tension just before it hits its natural breaking point, freezing the suddenly off balance world in place, fragments of the building conflict and boiling emotions now hanging in the air about them like shards of glass suspended on razorwire.

Robin feels her body _try_ to flinch. But she can’t move.

She can’t _breathe_.

She can’t –

Joseph smiles at her, so sad and understanding and quietly heartbroken that her mouth floods with acid and copper.

“This must all be… very confusing.” He looks at her, all soft sadness and sympathy. “Frightening. Those… _people_ …” he hisses the word, a concession of humanity he doesn’t want to make in lieu of a swear he’s not allow to use, “must’ve told you such horrible things. I can only imagine what they tried to make you believe about us.”

_Nothing the **facts** didn’t support you –_

“What they tried to make you believe about _yourself_.”

_Wh-_

_What?_

Her mind freezes, playing over his words in a confused loop, and whatever Joseph sees – or _thinks_ he sees – in her spurs him on.

“It must’ve felt like you had no choice. Serve their evil or –” his voice cuts off in a snarl, a surge of the righteous _**Wrath**_ that had drowned Hope County in blood rising to the surface, cutting shadows across his face and bringing the hellfire back into his eyes. It’s rising, soaring up to a fever pitch, venom bleeding under her skin and pulse thundering in her ears and Joseph’s eyes fall on her again, dark and vicious with hate and –

He freezes.

Joseph stares at her, eyes going a little wide, and something shudders through his skin, a faint tremor that runs up into his eyes, reining back the fire and bringing the sorrow to the forefront again.

“I’m sorry.”

The tone, the expression, the glistening sheen over his eyes… she could almost believe he means it. ( _Stop. Just stop._ ) But she knows better. At least, she knows he doesn’t mean it for what he _should._

“When I think about what you’ve been through… what you’ve been forced to endure…”

_**You.**_ Her palms are wet under her fingernails. _I’ve been forced to endure **you**._

She sees the moment that Joseph catches the scent of fresh blood, sees his eyes go wide and track down to her trembling fists as his words cut off. He gasps softly, hands reaching for hers only to stop when she twitches away, goes wounded-animal tense and ready.

He sighs again, looks up at her again, heart breaking in his oblivious, self-righteous eyes. “Please,” his hands are still out, offered, promising comfort and welcome in a twisted counterpoint to the false surrender he’d offered her all those months ago.

She doesn’t twitch.

Finally his hands fall again, the briefest flicker of frustration glinting behind his eyes, his head shaking and dipping, eyes falling closed as he takes a deep breath.

“Please.” He sounds so tired, looks so tired when he forces his gaze on her again. “You _don’t need_ to be afraid. We _don’t_ blame you.” The sorrowful desperation in his eyes could just about break somebody’s heart. “What’s happened is not your fault.”

A hysterical, incredulous gasp of disbelief escapes her lips before she can choke it down, and Joseph _pounces_ on the sound, catches it and holds it tight without having the _slightest_ idea of what it means.

“It’s _not_.” He reaches towards her again, pleading, beckoning, so damn earnest. “You submitted yourself to their demands to _survive_ , we know that. If you _hadn’t_ …” he trails off, eyes going distant in a flash of fear and a shudder running through him. Then he shakes his head. Breathes. Looks to her with a wan smile. “You don’t need to be afraid anymore.” His hands, still outstretched towards her, tremble. “Whatever they threatened you with,” another flash of _fear anger horror **Wrath**_ flickers in his eyes, “it _can’t_ touch you now. Not here.” And then – just like that – the dark fires fade again, turning soft and warm and welcoming as Joseph – deep ocean eyes wet with unshed tears – smiles. “We won’t let them. You’re _safe_.”

Joseph looks at her, and he smiles, and one hand reaches up to brush against her cheek.

And Robin _recoils_.

From the way Joseph starts at that, flinching and gasping softly in profound _hurt_ , one could almost think he’s a real boy instead of a nightmare made flesh.

It only lasts for a few seconds, just long enough to set the ice in her blood on a growing boil ( _you don’t **get** to be hurt, you **bastard** – you don’t **get** to be **fucking hurt**_ ). But then it fades into the background, coloring the resurging sadness and sympathy as he just keeps _looking_ at her, and it’s so close – _too close, too fucking close, **stop** , you don’t **get** to **do** this_ – to the way her people, her _friends_ , her _**family**_ look at her sometimes, when they think she’s not looking or when everyone’s too far gone to care. It’s a look full of broken hearts and fear and the want – the _need_ – to protect and to hold and to _make it **better**_.

_You did this._ She wants to scream, to swear, to let the Words behind her teeth _**burn**_ him. _You. Fucking. **Did this.** You **don’t get to** –_

“I understand.” The Father’s sainted benevolence sweeps over her skin, a fetid torrent of clueless deceit and self-righteous overconfidence, and she’s not sure if she’s going to laugh or throw up. “This is all,” he’s so open, so _compassionate_ , fuck his poisoned little heart, “overwhelming. You’ve been lost and afraid, been fed their lies for so long... recovery will take time.” He smiles at her, soft and warm and hopeful as the first light of dawn, and the fire in her blood burns up brighter. “But in time,” something flickers at the edges of his eyes, patient and hungry, the _satisfaction_ of a victory already won, just waiting to be claimed, “I know you will come to understand that we only want what’s best for you. We only want to help you. To see _our **family**_ –”

The world goes empty – a blinding heat flooding over her, breath freezing and flaying her lungs and throat, and she can still hear him, still _feel_ his voice crawling under her skin and clawing its way down down down inside her, cold lightning and hot venom spreading through her and she _can’t_ –

Something brushes against her cheek.

Blue oceans rise to swallow her.

Joseph smiles.

“We love –”

_**“Eat a dick, Joe.”** _

The _**Words**_ hang in the air between them, leaving Joseph stunned silent and trembling, leaving Robin wide eyed and raw as a flayed corpse.

_Well._

_Fuck me, then._

She can barely breathe, her mouth full of stale air, copper, and acid – burning with the Words she hadn’t ever intended to say. The concession she’d never intended to give. The connection she’d never intended to seal.

She wants to throw up.

She wants to _scream._

She wants to claw her way through skin and muscle and bone and rip her own heart out, crush it between her blood-stained hands and just have it all be _over_.

She wishes that – if she’d _had_ to break – she could have had something _better_ – more fitting, more calculated, more _true_ – to say than a schoolyard taunt.

She wishes she’d bitten off her tongue when she’d had the chance.

She wishes that all the voices in the mists would stop _laughing_.

And she _needs_ for Joseph Seed to fucking fuck off and _fucking **die**_.

Or, at the _very_ least, she needs him to stop staring at her and smiling like he thinks he’s _won_.

And it’d be really nice if a very scared part of her didn’t share that thought.

“I’ll admit,” he’s drawling the words, lips now quirked ever so slightly upwards, quietly amused, “a part of me has always hoped…” And then he laughs – a gentle, tender little sound, warm and affectionate and indulgently self-deprecating. He shakes his head a little, tilts it and looks up at her, almost… almost _playfully_ ( _is he… is he actually trying to –_ ) and – “Those aren’t exactly Words I would have _chosen_ to bear.”

_Wh-_

_What?_

_**What?!** _

Robin stares up at him, breath caught in her chest like he’s punched her.

Then, in a rush of heat and memories, her vision goes red.

Joseph’s looking down at her, amused and affectionate and _fucking **teasing**_ her – the faintest hints of resigned _hurt_ curling around the edges of his sanctimonious warm and loving condescension, like she’s a child throwing a temper tantrum over losing a toy when he knows there’s a new puppy waiting in the next room. Looking at her like _she’s_ being unreasonable, being difficult and hurtful – but _endearingly_ so. Like she’s a frightened child lashing out at the darkness, and all he needs to do is enduring her paltry flailing until she inevitably gives in and turns to him. Like all the pain and suffering and _injustice_ she’s had to fight through for _sixteen **years**_ is a misunderstanding, a trivial little bump in the road, and her drug-addled and slurred out Words are a deep wound that he is willing to magnanimously endure and forgive.

The divinely anointed Father, deigning to bring the lost and hurting child into the tender loving care of his precious little Family, safe from the _Bad People_ who’d lied and misled.

Because it’s all just been a big _misunderstanding_.

Because the _Resistance_ are the bad guys.

Because Robin’s too much the stupid, scared little girl to _know better_.

Because Joseph and his brothers are just the _fucking **heroes**._

_And isn’t she just so blessed to have them._

She can see the satisfaction etched on ever plane of Joseph’s face, see the hungry anticipation lurking behind his ocean blue eyes, see the faint tremors that still run over his body (through his muscles and under his skin) – the aftershocks of her Words. And she can see the ease. The confidence. The smug awareness that Joseph Seed _knows_ her, has her all weighed and measured and figured out. That he’s seen all he needs to. That he knows her better than she knows herself.

She sees it all and, once again, Robin sees _red_.

And then something goes - _snap_ \- inside her.

Her left hand is closing around Joseph’s throat before anyone has the chance to blink, the rest of her following with a snarl, the whole of her weight going behind her arm, into her hand, around his throat, squeezing tighter and tighter and tighter and –

That’s when the Seeds move.

Joseph’s left hand clamps down on her wrist – the right flying up to dig into and push back on her shoulder, his eyes wide and warring between shock and Wrath – just as Jacob’s reaches her, his great big hand grabbing her forearm _hard_ , fingers digging sharply into the nerves until her fingers snap open, Joseph pushing her wrist back and away the second he’s free. One of John’s painted hands is flickering towards them – to push her away or pull Joseph out from under her or what, she doesn’t know, doesn’t care, doesn’t think about it as she _moves_ , lunges forward with teeth bared and – Jacob’s other hand comes up around _her_ throat, grip like iron as it digs in and _holds_ , thumb pressing up underneath her jaw and fingers curling around towards her spine, stopping her and pulling back, her teeth snapping shut less than an inch from Joseph’s throat. The Red swims over her eyes and she snarls, lunges _again_ , forces her way through the nearly crushing pain and the force and – John’s hand _slams_ against her sternum, rough and bruising as he shoves her back against Jacob, the eldest brother’s other arm leaving hers to wrap around her stomach, hauling her back against him as Joseph forces her left arm up and she _screams_ , snarls, throws her right arm up and back and just fucking lets the _**rage**_ burn through the sheering agony as she claws at Jacob’s face, _screams_ when John’s other hand grabs her arm, forces it away from Jacob and pins it against her stomach, _screams_ when Joseph forces himself upright, forces her back further into Jacob, _screams_ when Joseph’s other hand curls into her hair, _holds_ her head back and in place against Jacob’s shoulder, screams and _screams_ and _**screams**_ because –

They’ve got her, got her pinned, got her trapped, Seeds on all sides, hands on her, holding and –

Her Words _**burn**_.

_**“You know, if it were up to me, you would have been dead a long time ago”**_ burns across the back of her neck, underneath the unbreakable claw of Jacob’s savage fingers. _**“You will confess. Every sin you’ve ever committed. No matter how petty, no matter how small… I will pull from you. Then we’ll see if you’re worthy of Atonement”**_ burns under her left collarbone and over her heart, underneath the oceanic weight of John’s painted hand. And, most of all, _**“God will not let you take me”**_ _burns_ where it twines and binds her left hand and wrist, burns underneath the effortless grasp of The Father’s hand, burns like the hellfire that’s staring into her from Joseph’s eyes.

Her soulmates hold her and their Words burn her and Robin bears her teeth and struggles and _screams_.

And it doesn’t do a damn thing.

She can’t move.

She _can’t move_ , can’t break away, can’t get free, can’t fight, can’t _fight_ , she _can’t fight_ , _can’t fight can’tfightcan’tfightcan’tfight **can’tfightcan’t-**_

One of them’s talking – the voice unintelligible and indistinguishable, only managing to break through the pain and the panic and the _**rage**_ with the lightning it shoots across her skin, white hot claws digging down and spreading through her blood like poison, fingers digging into her skin and voices digging into her insides, spreading and curling into every part of her, hungry and greedy and demanding, claiming, _owning_ , hands holding her from outside and sprouting inside, voices in her mind and her skin and her ears tearing her to pieces, fingernails on the chalkboard of her _fucking **soul**_ as they try to take her apart, take her – _take_ her – _take **her**_ and she flails and struggles and _rages_ against it all but it doesn’t _fucking do a **damn thing**_ , she _can’t_ –

She can’t get free.

_**But.** _

But Robin’s an officer of the law.

But Robin’s a native daughter of rural Montana.

But Robin was born to and raised by two people with souls made of bitterness and spite and lost hopes and broken dreams.

Robin is the granddaughter of a Vietnam Marine and small town sheriff, and a woman who grew up beautiful, Jewish, and orphaned with seven siblings in the slums of New York City.

Robin can’t get free.

But Robin Baird has her _**rage**_.

And Robin Baird _knows_ how to _**curse.**_

And she _fucking **does**_.

Robin holds the rage close – _once more, old friend_ – and opens her mouth and the world _**burns**_.

She doesn’t know what she’s saying, can hear her own voice – rising, raging, drowning out the others – but can’t make out the words, can’t actually _think_ any of them, doesn’t even _try_ to. She just _feels_ them. Just feels every moment of fear, of loneliness, of confusion and hopelessness and _guilt_. Feels every stab of raw pain from every time she was reminded what soulmates were supposed to be, every rush of rage when she remembered that joy wasn’t for her. Feels every swell of shame for every time she’s ever _wanted_ , every lash of despair when her hopes were dashed again and again and again. Feels every stab of fear and stab of real, _physical_ pain that she’s lived with day after day after day for the past _months_ of _their **hell**_. Feels every empty void – like the underside of a river, a faceless threat, and back turning on her – that’s swallowed her every time she sees the pain, the destruction, the misery and the violence and the death that the whole county is drowning in, the sick whisper of every little voice in her mind and the mists saying that she’s a _part_ of it, that it’s _her fault_ , that it’s her bloody hands and her tattered heart and her blackened, _broken **soul**_ that is responsible for it all. Feels every hiss and giggle and cry that “It’s who you _are_ ” and “That’s how soulmates work” and “They’re the people you _belong_ with, the people you belong _to_.” She feels ever. Fucking. _Day_ of the past _sixteen **years**_ of being alone and broken and _wrong_ and _**unwanted**_ , and she throws it _all_ upon the Seeds.

It’s only fair, really.

They’re the ones who gave it all to her in the first place.

She’s not sure how long the rage holds strong, lifts her up and keeps her going, burning through her and into her words and into the air like final judgment.

It can’t last.

It hits her, all at once – a wave of white/black hot/cold _emptiness_ that freezes her rage to cinders, leaves her hollow and suffocating, eyes gone wide and unseeing as her rage – her _life_ – fades to nothing.

When the world comes back around her she still being held – the hands softer in touch and fewer in number, but still firm and unmoving – against Jacob Seed. She almost feels like telling them they don’t need to bother. She _definitely_ can’t move now. Now she can hardly breathe.

It takes her another second to realize that the hand in her hair is stroking now – not clutching, not greedy and grasping – the touch soft and gentle as anything as a low, honey-smooth voice whispers soothingly above her.

“-ight, it’s alright, Angel,” warmth and tenderness and compassion flood through the every breath, washing over her, and she wants to be sick at how good it feels. “There now, you’re alright,” a soft brush across her hair, a sweet drag against her scalp, “it’s all alright. We understand.” A lock of hair tucked behind her ear, followed by a feather light brush over her cheek, and then the softest flutter against her skin, words whispered into her hair. “We’re not angry.”

Robin shudders, tries to flinch away from the touch.

All she really manages to do is sort of press her face against Jacob’s shoulder.

The touching and the soothing murmurs stop, the world spinning around her in a change from the empty void it’d been moments before. Then, slowly, bit by bit, other things start to filter back into her awareness – the soft, warm pressure against her chest ( _John_ ), and the coppery scent of fresh blood in the air; the dull, steadily growing pain in her lungs and throat, the unsettling lack of feeling in her right shoulder, and the irregular shocks running through the rest of her body; a too hot, sticky wetness burning across her upper leg; the taste of sharp copper and bitter acid and burnt sugar in her mouth; the fluttering pulse of a distressed heartbeat at her back; the scent of blood and gunpowder, of mountain air and wolf under her head ( _Jacob_ ), the pound pound pounding in her veins and her ears; the growing awareness of heat radiating from all sides; the trails of fire that have burned paths down her face. And, above and beyond any of it, she suddenly becomes aware of Joseph’s eyes, staring down through hers and all the way into her soul.

He’s staring at her, eyes raw with pain and sorrow and concern and the sharp edge of possessive _disapproval_ he can’t quite keep hidden. Robin half expects Joseph to start petting her head again, but instead his hand – his free hand, the one that isn’t locked, gentle and unyielding, around the Words on her left wrist – falls down to her leg, the faintest whisper over the bandages that still sends shocks of _pain_ through her, forces a cry up her throat and into her mouth, and she only barely manages to catch it behind her teeth. Joseph still notices. Shakes his head and _sighs_ , frustrated disappointment and anguished concern and the echoes of _Robin why are you like this_ coming from someone who has _no **right**_ to ask that. “You’ve _hurt_ yourself,” he sighs, low and weary, and under all the Fatherly concern she can hear the admonishment ( _don’t break my things_ ) and she kind of wants to laugh at it ( _take some credit for yourself, won’t you?_ ).

And maybe Joseph sees that in her eyes, because his expression floods with resigned, bone-weary grief, sighing like a martyr as his hand comes back up, easing over her face, palm warm against her cheek and long fingers curling about her jaw line. It’s a nice touch, actually; soft and warm and soothing and _proprietary_ , and when she tries to flinch this time Joseph doesn’t allow it. He just holds – touch soft and unrelenting as steel-cored velvet – and lifts her face, guided up so the world beyond Joseph’s eyes - already frayed and blurry – fades away, leaving only the _blue_.

Exhausted beyond reason, Robin bears her teeth and meets his gaze.

They stay like that for a moment, eyes locked together, Joseph searching for any sign of something she’ll never give.

And then he smiles again.

“It’s alright.” Joseph smiles, hands soft and tender on her skin – because why should he have to fight and grasp something he already owns? “We understand. We knew it would be difficult, and we are prepared to weather the storm.” Joseph smiles, voice warm and hungry as fire, smooth and silky as fresh blood. “However long it takes, _whatever_ it takes…” Joseph smiles, leans in close, and hellfire burns before her eyes. “We will _not_ allow you to be lost.” _To **us**_ goes unsaid, hangs in the air like a mist of Bliss and arterial spray, and Joseph smiles and leans in closer.

“I know you’re confused and afraid,” Joseph smiles and leans in closer.

“But it’s alright.”

His forehead presses against hers.

“We’re here.”

He smiles.

“You’re home.”

His voice fills the room, rays of sunlight and waves of cool water washing over her skin – the joy and the devotion and the _love_ in Joseph Seed’s voice sinking through her skin, soothing out all the raw edges, promising everything she’s ever been scared to hope for, whispering that it wouldn’t be _so_ bad to just…

Her eyes fall closed, and Robin lets go.

“No.”

She can fell Jacob – steel behind her, the only thing keeping her upright at the moment – go battlefield tense.

She can feel John’s fingers twitch once – reactively – where they’re resting on her numb arm, can hear his soft little inhale.

She can feel Joseph go still.

It’s very nearly all she _can_ feel through the cold and emptiness.

Her throat’s raw, torn up and dry as hell, bad enough that just breathing hurts. She grabs onto the pain like an old friend and _holds_. “No. You’re monsters, and I will _never_ stop fighting you.”

She opens her eyes, looks up, and stares straight through Joseph Seed’s hellfire eyes.

“I’m going to stop you.”

The world slows, fades, time goes empty and silent and –

And then, from somewhere deep, deep inside her, Robin feels the cold ashes of her burnt out rage _shift_.

“I am going to get out of here,” the cold grows, sharpens, echoes of her rage’s power and drive going needle-fine and clear and hard as diamond. “I am going to burn down everything you people have built, and I am going to take this whole damn county _back_. And then,” the rage – reborn, cold and unfamiliar and still her dearest old friend – seeps out of her and through the air, dancing and spiraling like blood in water, and the moment she feels it hit the Seeds (Jacob still and tense as a fresh corpse, John flinching like a kicked dog, Joseph’s indulgent, proprietary fingers curling slowly back into claws) is like its own kind of salvation. She doesn’t so much as twitch. Just keeps staring into her soulmate’s eyes. “Then I am going to put those cuffs back on you and see you locked away behind bars for the rest of your life, you _sick. Fucking. **Psychopath.**_ ”

She stares up at him – cold and tired and _hollow_ , only just held together by the patchwork strength of her frozen rage.

And Joseph just stares down at her, eyes full of sorrow and compassion and heartbreak that he doesn’t have any right to feel.

Slowly he pulls back, head tilting slightly as he regards her intently, steady breaths wallpapering over the last traces of bitterness and wounded rejection.

Then, eyes still locked with hers, Joseph lifts his hand.

And hers with it.

The glossy, liquid black of Joseph’s Words seem to writhe and shift before her eyes, like a snake under her skin, each elegantly formed letter reflecting in its architect’s eyes. And then Joseph moves again, graceful and serene as he raises his right arm, and a surge of molten acid floods up Robin’s throat and catches in the back of her mouth when Joseph guides her own left hand down onto his skin. She doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to _see_ it, doesn’t –

Her eyes fall to their limbs, drawn – even as she tries to scream her refusal – to the sight of her own handwriting – a bold scrawl cut across the inside of his right forearm – underneath her Seed-marked hand.

“You can fight this for as long as you want.” For once, it’s almost a relief when her eyes are pulled back up to his. “We knew the journey would be difficult. Painful.” His hand pulls hers up and down slowly, pressing down and trapping when she tries to pull her fingers away from the Words on his arm. “But in the end,” he tilts his head, looks at her calmly, sympathy and certainty in his burning eyes as he purrs, “it doesn’t matter.”

And then he’s pulling her hand from his arm, lifting it again, the shackle of Words accusatory between them.

“This _is_ your home. And _we are_ your _family_. We are yours,” his lips slowly lilt upwards, eyes going softer, and he draws her hand in close, Robin trying and failing to break free, heart racing and stomach plummeting, not knowing but fearing, _dreading_ , grasping for the edges of her tattered rage but so cold, so tired, so much fucking pain and fear and –

“And _you_ ,” Joseph draws her hand in closer, and she’s drowning in eyes deeper and bluer than Montana skies, “are _**ours**_.”

And then – just as she feels a scream tear its way up her throat – Joseph turns his head and –

His lips brush against her skin – once against the back of her hand and once against the back of her wrist, sweet and tender and _deliberate_ , practiced, an innocent little display of unequivocal ownership, as though he’s setting his Words into her skin all over again.

And Robin stares at him, stares into those impossibly blue eyes, and she can’t even find the strength to scream.

Finally Joseph lowers her hand, clasps it between both of his, fingers petting her skin as he sighs, all warm joy and anticipatory hunger.

He looks at her, and Joseph _smiles_ and he purrs, “We will not lose you.” _No one is coming to save you._ “Welcome home, my angel.”

Robin stares at him.

And then she lets her head fall back, lets her eyes fall shut, and she laughs.

Held tight in the arms of her soulmates, Robin laughs.

And she laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and _laughs_ , and _cries._

Robin Baird is twenty-two years old, lost and alone and torn to pieces, torn away from God and claimed by the loving arms of the Devil in all his guises.

Robin Baird is twenty-two years old, and she’s trapped in hell with no escape in sight.

Robin Baird is twenty-two years old, and all she can do is hope that she doesn’t have a heart left to break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Non-Consensual Drug Use, Abduction, Imprisonment, Hallucinations, Self-Hatred, Possessive/Obsessive Behavior, Introductory Inducement of Stockholm-Syndrome, Manipulation, Thoughts of Self-Harm, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Sexual Overtures, Victim Blaming, Violence, and Joseph Seed discovery whole new worlds of **creepy**. 
> 
> *Ahem*  
>  _AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *several hours of incomprehensible screaming*_
> 
> *AHEM*
> 
> _Well, there it is y'all - part 2 of S.W.A.C. is complete! I had **so much fun** working on this, and all y'all's support has been **amazing**! Thank you all, so, **so** very much for following along and leaving your reviews and kudos, I really can't express how much that all means to me. Hope you all enjoyed the ride on part 2 as much as I did, and I am **SO** very excited to get going with part 3! Aaaaand… about which... oi._
> 
> _Ok, so I've got a bit of a good news/bad news situation. **Good News!** I've got the entirety of S.W.A.C. part 3 outlined and set on track and going strong and, as objectively as I can be, it's looking **amazing**._   
>  _Which leads to the **Bad News** … right. So I... kind of got horribly sick over... most of November and the entirety of December and January, frankly. Which on top of just sucking in general sucked in particular because I was planning to get bulk of part 3 done during the winter season. And that... didn't happen. At all. On top of which my work schedule has recently changed - specifically, my hours have grown by... a lot. And since I was already working enough hours to drown a large horse in... yeah, I'm not really getting as much time to write these days as I'd prefer. Which is to say - it's probably going to be a while before I start uploading S.W.A.C. part 3, for which I can't apologize enough (seriously you guys, I was **really** hoping I'd be able to start uploading it shortly after this one finished, I am so depressed right now)._   
>  _However. **MORE GOOD NEWS!!!** Part of the schedule change is that, for pretty much the first time ever, I'm going to start getting vacation time! Which should **really** help with writing! Also, while SWAC part 3 itself is probably a ways off... I … maaaay just have some other stuff that goes into this series, which I can upload every now and then, just to keep y'all on your toes and remembering my name. ^_~ (And hopefully not cursing it). ^-^"_
> 
> _This has been your crazy-author rambling rant for the day. Thank you for enduring it._
> 
> _On another note, the Title comes from "Bottom of the Deep Blue Sea" by MISSIO, which - honestly - is kind of the theme song for the relationship between the Seeds and Robin (from their perspective, at least), and a little bit this work as a whole._
> 
> _And on **that** note! So I've always intended for each chapter to have its own title; however, I'm... kind of really bad when it comes to titling things. Like... really, really bad. There's a reason most of my stories either have **super** basic ones or go full-purple. But, I definitely knew what **this** chapter's would be, and thankfully that provided me with the kick in the pants to stop dithering and settling on ones for everything else. Which I will be adding in as soon as this chapter is posted, whoo!_
> 
> _Welp, time to wrap this up before I end up writing a whole new work in the end notes. Thank you all so much for following this story, and I hope to see y'all very soon for the next installment! \^x^/_  
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> _Things are going to get so much worse._


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